The Apartment
by GwendolenFairfax
Summary: Rents are high in New York. So sometimes you have to compromise to get the apartment of your dreams. But there is one problem. And that gets the story rolling. All-Human. Rated M for later slash. Beautifully betaed by Kristen618.
1. Prelude

Hello everybody! Three days ago I watched Billy Wilder's "The Apartment". A brilliant movie! And I got an idea for an all-human story with Edward and Jasper. Here it is!

**Please note: **No native speaker here! Errors may occur!

**Disclaimer:** Neither do I own Twilight, nor do I own "The Apartment".

Special thanks go out to l'marie wilson and Ithilien Archer for reviewing "Last One Standing" so enthusiastically. Also, I would like to dedicate my story to Livia09. Love you!

**Special note: **This is the enhanced version of the story, beautifully betaed by Kristen618. I hope you know that I owe you big time for your great work. Thank you again and again!

**The Apartment**

**Prelude**

It's plain crazy. There are approximately 8,400,000 people living in New York City. That is more than the whole population of Switzerland. And 1.6 million of these people are living in Manhattan. 67 thousand per square mile! I – Edward Masen – am one of them. I still can't picture that… not the huge amount of human beings in Manhattan, nor the fact that I'm actually one of them.

Maybe my lack of imagination regarding the population of New York has something to do with the place that I come from. You see, I'm kind of a country bumpkin. I was born and raised in a one-horse town called Forks, somewhere in the depths of Washington State. We have a lot of beautiful and breath-taking landscape, but we don't have a lot of people. Even less since my elder sister and I have moved to New York. The population of Forks was 3,275, now it's 3,273. Kind of sad when you think about it.

You'll probably ask yourself why I'm so obsessed with numbers. That's because of my job. I work as a project coordinator for the City University of New York, Central Office. My net pay is $3300 per month. I coordinate a program which provides funding to colleges and universities for research equipment purchases. On the one hand that means I am calculating, shifting and distributing money. And I also prepare periodic budget reports. On the other hand I act as a liaison to the CUNY administrative offices. So basically I'm an advanced accountant. I've been working for the university for six months. I get along well with the other employees. It's not my dream job, but at least I'm working for the university.

To be honest, I always had a fondness for numbers, far before I had my job. Ever since I can remember, I liked to play with numbers. I was kind of nerdy. I calculated the average rainfall in Forks, the average age of the inhabitants of the town and tried to work out the probability of seeing a deer. The idea that you can almost calculate everything as long as you have the variables has always put my mind at ease. It makes contingency not seem so… well… contingent. Later I discovered my fascination for economics. So I studied Mathematics with a concentration in the Mathematics of Finance at Baruch College, New York City. Afterward I obtained a Master of Science degree in Financial Engineering. I would have liked to conduct research and teaching at Baruch College, but the opportunity hasn't arisen yet. But I haven't abandoned hope.

You may ask: Why New York? On the one hand, New York has a lot of culture, nightlife and science to offer. On the other hand, I wanted to experience something totally different and new. You know, I'm a little bit of a nerd, but I'm also very curious about the world. I get bored very quickly. And Forks can be quite boring! And so, when my sister Mary announced that she intended to move to New York in order to live with her boyfriend, I decided to go with her.

Mary is now 31, six years older than me. She studied law in New York – probably for the same reasons I have followed her – but came back after she gloriously passed her bar exam. However, she soon discovered that there is not much to do for a lawyer in Forks. Particularly for a lawyer who is specialized in international law. And furthermore, she found out that she couldn't do without Simon. She met him over operaloversdotnet during her studies and surprisingly enough they discovered that they were both living in New York. Creepy coincidence, don't you agree? Anyway… They attended the Met, fell in love, had four fulfilled years in New York and then broke up, because my sister had decided to go back to Forks. She thought she could get along without him. But she was wrong. Hence the decision to return to the Big Apple.

Simon makes good money as an engineer. And she got lucky and obtained a well-paying job at the UN. So they moved into an apartment on the Upper East Side. Which brings me to my current… well… situation.

See, I lived in a tiny double room in a student dorm on the Lower East Side while I did my bachelors and masters. Subsequently, I stayed at my sister's while I was searching for a job. And when I had found one, I decided to get a place of my own.

Above, I mentioned the beautiful landscape around Forks. Imagine an endless ocean of trees, peppered with waves of mountains, completed with lakes of varying sizes. Yes, that's it! And now imagine the skyline of Manhattan. See the difference? And the problem is: I actually like woods, mountains and lakes. I need nature around me to be content. So, when I was looking for apartments, I concentrated my search on the area around Central Park, the only place in Manhattan with at least a little bit of green. The problem is that the apartments near Central Park are either ugly, uncomfortable, absolutely unaffordable or inhabited. It was an exhausting, tedious search.

But then I found the perfect apartment at the Upper West Side, low West 69th street. Two steps away from Central Park. The street is tree-lined and surprisingly quiet. It's on the second floor of a brownstone, pre-war building, light-flooded, has one big living room with a expansive window bay, two small bedrooms, a bath with a tub and a tiny separate kitchen. But okay, there was one flaw to the apartment. It was $3100 a month. I couldn't afford it on my own so I thought I had to do without my dream apartment.

However, coincidence had something in store for me. One evening – still brooding about a way to get the apartment – I had dinner with four of my co-workers, three of them male, one female. I'm a decent looking guy – blue eyes, bushy eyebrows, nice jaw line – and I think that Rosalie Hale – the female – had a crush on me. She gave me the eye during the whole time. And it was blatant eye. I tried to ignore it as politely as I could since I wasn't interested. But I admit, at the end of dinner I was both desperate and annoyed. Then, however, I got a chance to escape her, because one of my male co-workers – Jasper Whitlock – asked me if I could help him with a mathematical problem. We hadn't talked much till this moment and I didn't know him well, but I gladly agreed.

So we went to his place – a depressing one-room apartment with leaking faucets, a broken heater and mildew on the walls – and discussed the problem for over an hour. It was very interesting and satisfying, because he has a complete different approach to mathematics than me. Mine is composed and strictly logical, his is passionate and intuitive. But he has the tendency to get frustrated to the point where he yells inarticulately and gets ready to throw stuff about his room. However, one minute later, he starts laughing, shakes his blond head and makes jokes about his behavior. You might call it unbalanced, but it's kind of fascinating. Anyway, after the hour had passed, I made a comment about the horrid state of his apartment. He agreed and told me that he was looking for a different place to stay.

One week later, we moved in the apartment. That was two months ago. The arrangement seemed perfect and we indeed got along well. Though he's slovenly, he manages to limit the chaos to his room. I do the cleaning, he gets the groceries. And because he's always very busy, we don't see each other that often. There is just one problem.

On Tuesday and Thursday evening I have to leave the apartment for at least two hours, sometimes even longer. That's because he's meeting someone in our apartment and he doesn't want me to know who it is. So I roam the streets of New York, read books in coffeehouses, attend my favorite twenties-style bar, watch birds at Central Park and freeze my arse off, because currently it's December. And today, on December the 5th, the story really begins.


	2. December the 5th

Wow, I'm amazed about your reactions! Thank you very much! I hope you continue to like my story.

**December the 5****th**

I take one look back to check if I've turned off all the lights in my office. Yep, all lights are off. So I close the door and lock it.

My office is on the fifth floor of 535 East 80th Street. I was lucky and got a two-windowed corner office. From one window I can look at East 80th Street, the other one points to East End Avenue and the East River. A lot of distraction, you might say, but I can block that out. I'm a responsible employee and as soon as I have started calculating, I lose myself in the numbers anyway. Today I had to check if it was efficient to give money to the chemistry department of CCNY so that they would be able to purchase 200 Erlenmeyer flasks and other equipment. It was boring as hell, because it's not very difficult to work that out. So I was very happy that my clock showed 5:20 when I emerged from my numbers for a moment. Time to go home!

In the hall I meet the Vice Chancellor of Research, Carol Milroy. She is a very nice, considerate woman, in her late forties, has a Ph.D. in Biological Science and is my boss. She likes to dress in practical clothes in subdued colors, but she still manages to look both elegant and accurate as she does today and I mindlessly comb my hair with my fingers to flatten it. It has the unpleasant trait of pointing in all directions. Believe me, it looks neither accurate nor elegant.

She smiles at me. "Have a nice evening, Mr. Masen. See you tomorrow!" I nod. "You too, Dr. Milroy."

While she proceeds to her office, I head for the stairway. I park my bike there while I'm working. Since I can't afford a car, it's my only vehicle, so it's all the more important that it doesn't get stolen. You know, when I moved to New York I was quite naïve regarding the possessive mentality of some of its citizens. In Forks, nobody locks his bike. If somebody actually did, everybody would think that the person is either a tourist or a moron. But luckily I had a knowing sister – whose bike was stolen not once, not twice, but four times in New York – and she educated me, so I locked my bike from the beginning. But I soon discovered that it's a stupid idea to even park your bike outside a building, because it's gone before you can say "bike lock". I lost one bike this way and since then I always try to place it in the shelter of a building. However, I'm still a little bit naïve. I'll get back to that later.

On average, it takes me 11 minutes and 28 seconds to get from my office to my, I mean our, apartment. I always ride through Central Park. Not just because it's the shortest way, but because – as I said – I need my daily dose of nature. And I do it whatever weather it may be.

I put on my dark brown Abercrombie & Fitch leather jacket, which I bought out of my first paycheck, and close the zipper. Then I add leather gloves, a long scarf, which I stuff in the collar of the jacket, and my bike helmet. It's a cold December in New York this year. It's the 5th of December and the thermometer already showed only 23 °F this morning. Horrible! I admit that I'm a wuss regarding low temperatures. The idea of leaving the building without gloves and a scarf seems like a suicide attempt to me. Jasper, who comes from Shreveport, Louisiana, where the average low temperature is 55.1 °F, doesn't mind cold at all. While I wrap myself in a blanket and cuddle up to the heater, he sits on the couch in his boxers and eats Macadamia Nut Brittle. It's a topsy turvy world.

Oh Lord! Suddenly it comes to mind. Today is Thursday. And that means I have to leave the apartment at 7 and loiter outside in the cold. Shit! In moments like this I hate our arrangement. It's not reasonable to expel me from the heater, a tub that enables me to have a warm bath and my cozy bed with the electric blanket. But you can't argue with Jasper about this. He's lively, but he usually isn't aggressive towards people. Yes, he has the tendency to destroy things in his surroundings when he's mad or frustrated, sometimes he even harms himself in the process. I'm not sure if it's on purpose or accidentally. But as long as I'm not certain, I go with "innocent until proven guilty" and assume it's accidentally. However, as I said, he never aims his aggressions at human beings. Except when I'm trying to argue with him about Tuesday and Thursday. Don't get me wrong, he has never hit me or done anything comparable. But his eyes throw sparks of anger and he _looks_ like he wants to hit me. And the strange thing is: At the same time, he seems desperate. So I let him be. But you can bet your life I'm curious about the identity of the woman I assume he's meeting. And I myself am desperate, because I don't want to be out there when it's cold.

I sigh internally and lift my bike so that I can carry it down the stairs. Once I arrive at the entrance hall, I nod at the doorman – Philip – and leave the building. My teeth start chattering immediately. I look up. The sky is full of heavy, grey clouds. I sigh internally again and climb my bike.

15 minutes and 10 seconds later I arrive at home, frozen into a block of ice. It took me four minutes more than usual because I picked up two portions of tuna salad at my favorite deli on York Avenue. Carrying my bike up the brownstone doorsteps, I fish for my keys in my book bag with trembling fingers. I open the glass front door, check our mailbox in the hallway – no mail – and climb the wooden stairs with my bike and unlock the door to my, I mean our, apartment.

The apartment doesn't have a hallway. When you enter it, you immediately step into the living room. Yes, oh yes, warmth. I could cry for joy. Jasper isn't there, but I can hear him rummaging around in his room, so I call "Hey, Jasper, I'm back. I brought some tuna salad for you." while I put my bike down in the corner of the room. He yells something that sounds like "Hey, Edward! Just a sec. Fuck!" Seems like he's not in the best mood. I unwrap myself and look at the early 1930's wooden wall clock in the living room. It's exactly 6 pm. I think he's dressing for his appointment, meeting, date, whatever. There is a 70 percent probability of him getting very annoyed when he does that. Obviously it's both problematic and important to dress right for the mysterious woman. My curiosity just kills me.

I get two plates, knives, forks and two bottles of beer from the kitchen and set the small eating table in the living room. It stands in the window bay, so that you can look outside and watch the people on the street while you're eating. Just as I am about to put the tuna salad on the plates, Jasper emerges from his room. He's only wearing a pair of navy blue, high-waisted cotton slacks, his honey blond, chin-length hair is scraggly and he looks absolutely exasperated.

"Edward, I need your help!" He holds out two button-down, long-sleeved shirts. "Which one?" His slightly raspy voice sounds desperate and impatient.

I look at the shirts: One is grey-blue, the other white. "Since I don't know who you're meeting, I'm not sure." I drawl and look him in the eyes.

He scowls at me and snarls, "I won't tell ya. So cut it out! Just tell me which you'd prefer."

Cheap tricks don't work on him. "The white one. Looks classy."

He nods curtly and goes back to his room.

This will probably be the best moment to tell you a little bit more about his looks. He's about 5′9″ – smaller than me –slim and pretty muscular. Understand, he doesn't look like the Hulk, but more like Paul Newman in "Cool Hand Luke". He's 24, but looks more like 26-27 if you ask me. I told you about his hair, but I haven't told you about his eyes. They're big and an intense grass-green. If you were to meet him, your first look will be into his eyes. They're his most outstanding feature.

We both like to dress in vintage clothes. But while my style is more like James Dean in the early 50s – blue jeans, plain-colored t-shirts, leather jackets– his is very 30s. His closet is full of high-waisted slacks, dress pants, short- and long-sleeved button-downs and 1930s leather men's shoes. So basically he almost always looks overdressed. But I like his style.

Meanwhile, I have placed the tuna salad on the plates, opened the bottles of beer and am sitting down. And just as he comes out of his room, fully dressed, I take a look outside the window. I start cursing quietly.

"What's up?" he asks as he sits down.

"It's snowing! Listen, Jasper," I throw an angry look at him, "it's ridiculous. I can't go outside. Whoever you're meeting, I swear I won't tell anybody."

He rests his elbows on either side of his plate and presses the heels of his hands against his eyes. "Yeah, I know. But you just can't stay." He sounds weary.

I'm too angry to mind his tone. I don't like cold and I don't like secrets. "It's our mutual apartment and I have a goddamn right to be here. It's just silly of you to…"

He cuts me off by mumbling "Please, Edward. Some like it hot."

I breathe in slowly and pick up my fork.

Okay. I have to go back a little to explain that one.

Two days before we moved into the apartment, we decided to spend the evening together. We thought that we should get to know each other better. So we went to my favorite twenties-style bar of which I've told you already. We mostly talked about music and movies. During the course of the evening, we found out that we had a mutual favorite movie: Billy Wilder's "Some Like It Hot". Marilyn Monroe, Tony Curtis, Jack Lemmon, Billy Wilder, set in Chicago of the Thirties. It's perfect! We both love this movie. That's one part of the story.

Now, the other part: I've told you that I'm still a little bit naïve regarding the possessive mentality of some of the New Yorkers. So, after we had lived peacefully together for two weeks, I once forgot to lock our apartment. I just closed the door like I would in Forks. Nobody broke into our apartment, but Jasper was pissed anyway. For good reason, I have to admit. So we had an argument. But it just led to nothing, I'm still not sure why. We both argued irrationally. Maybe we were both stressed. Anyway, while he was yelling at me, I suddenly realized that this stupid argument could destroy our apartment share and that I liked him too much to risk that. Apart from practical needs, we had a reason to live together. So I looked at him calmly and just said "Some like it hot". I just wanted to remind him that we had something in common, that we agreed on something. He stopped yelling and returned my look. And our argument was over.

Since then, when one of us says "Some like it hot" during an argument, it means that there will be no solution to it and that it's useless to continue fighting. Not that we fight that often. And it's not that we say it all the time. Just in futile arguments.

That's the reason why I stopped arguing now.

We have a nice, quiet dinner and talk about work. He's always tense before his Tuesday and Thursday appointments, but today he seems more relaxed than usual and his laugh doesn't sound as strained as it usually does on these days. After dinner, we finish our beers and he smokes a cigarette by the window.

"Shall I do the dishes?" I ask him because I know how he hates it.

He shakes his head and smiles apologetically. "No, I'll do it. Ya got to go. Thanks for the salad."

I give him a crooked smile and stand up. While I wrap myself again, I tell him to have a good time. He grins puckishly and murmurs, "Oh, I will."

Finally it's 6:50 and I'm standing in front of the house. The snow is falling in thick flakes and like many times before, I think about hiding behind a car. I could stay here and wait for the mysterious woman to arrive, but, as always, I decide against it. Though I'm desperately curious, I don't want to betray his trust. So I sigh internally for the third time today, fold up the collar of my jacket and start loitering.


	3. December the 6th

Hello everybody! Here's the next chapter. Please let me know what you think about it!

**December the 6****th**

I wake up feeling like the floor of a taxicab. I loitered hard last night. God, I think this is the worst hangover of my life. My head pulses with pain and the rest of my body aches like I just completed a marathon. I blink reluctantly and moan painfully when I realize that I've forgotten to close the curtains. I quickly scrunch up my eyes and pull the duvet over my head. To make matters worst, my old alarm clock starts clanging. Why, oh why? I've taken the day off! My head feels like it's going to burst. I blindly fish for the clock and turn it off. I try to ignore my condition and go back to sleep, but my stomach starts to flip. Oh God, I have to throw up.

Luckily I've made it to the bathroom in time. While I'm brushing my teeth intensely and try to avoid a look in the mirror, I suddenly remember why I've taken the day off and set the alarm. My sister. Her wedding. I'm supposed to meet her at the florist on West 56th Street and help her choose the flowers. I look at our bathroom clock. 10:30 am. Damn, I have to be there in 40 minutes. I have to look presentable. So I rinse my mouth and risk a glance in the mirror. My blue eyes are bloodshot and have dark circles under them. My face is grey and unshaven. My bronze hair is greasy and sticks out in all directions. God, this will be a challenging task.

After I've taken a quick shower, I shave, brush my teeth for a second time and tame my hair with my coconut hair wax. On my way back to my room, I stop at the kitchen to fill and switch on the electric kettle, then I get dressed – dark blue jeans, beige button-down, black blazer, dark brown suede work boots – and make myself a cup of coffee. Unfortunately I'm allergic to pain killers, so coffee is the only way I can fight my terrible headache. Luckily, I love coffee.

Finally I sit down on the Chesterfield 1930 leather oxblood sofa that is the center of our living room and take a deep breath. I think you've guessed by now that Jasper and I have something else in common: We love the Thirties. The atmosphere, the clothes, the furniture, the movies and the music of this era. So we easily agreed on the furnishings of the living room and the kitchen. And every time we sit together, we listen to Radio Dismuke, an online radio station which plays music of the Twenties and Thirties. I take a gulp of coffee and pick up the pack of cigarettes he has forgotten on the coffee table when he left for work this morning. I examine it.

It's strange. I know the brand of cigarettes he smokes, I know where he works, I know which movies and what music he likes, and I know he loves the Thirties, but I know almost nothing about his past. Yes, he comes from Shreveport. But does he still have a family or friends there? Was he ever in a relationship? Did he have a happy childhood? He never talks about these things. And so, I know little about him. Maybe he has a dark past, maybe he left a wife and kids in Shreveport, maybe he has committed terrible crimes. I put the cigarettes back on the table and take another gulp. After all he has these violent tendencies.

I grin crookedly as I realize that I'm about to calculate the possibility of him being a psycho killer. It's ridiculous. Of course he's not. Instead of being naïve, I'm paranoid now. I shake my head to get rid of these thoughts, which are, by the way, surely induced by my hangover, and rearrange two of the couch pillows absently. And in doing so I see something in a crevice of the couch.

As I pull it out, I see that it's a cigarette case. It's made of silver, simple and has an engraving. I sit up and put away the cup as I identify the serpentine letters: P. B. Not Jasper's initials. I open the case. "Ha!" I say triumphantly. It's not Jasper's brand. I think the mysterious woman left it here. It's hers. Evidence. I'm like an excited child. As I start thinking about whether or not I know somebody with the initials PB, I look at the clock by chance. Shit, I'll be late for sure.

I arrive at the florist at 11:20 and lock my bike up to a snow-covered bike rack hastily. Then I hurry, almost slide into the shop. Of course my sister's already there and talking to the young female florist. Mary looks at me with a slightly unnerved expression in her brown eyes and beckons me to join their discussion in front of a desk full of flowers. I spend the next two hours talking about wedding bouquets and flower arrangements.

"God, you look awful." Mary says, sitting opposite to me at the table in a café. We decided to have a cup of coffee and – in her case – a piece of cake after we were finished. So we went to a small café just across the street. She ties her dark brown hair in a ponytail while she asks, "How long was your night?"

I rub my temple slowly. My head still feels heavy and aches. "Very long and too liquid."

She raises her eyebrows dispraisingly and sips at her café latte. "I don't understand why you even drink alcohol, having the allergy and all."

I shrug and drink a big gulp of my black coffee. I'm not in the mood for defending myself.

She opens her mouth, but hesitates for a moment before she asks, "And, met someone nice?"

I blink at her, surprised. Normally, she doesn't ask such questions, because she is relatively conservative. See, I don't like women, sexuality-wise. I like sheep. No, just kidding. I like men. And while she doesn't object to homosexuality itself, she feels uneasy about the idea of having a gay brother. I smile at her, "Do you really want to know, Mary?"

She grins lightly, "Edward, I'm getting married in 15 days and I want to know if you'll bring someone along. Because if you do, I'll have to rethink the seating arrangements." She reaches out and touches my hand. "And I want to know if you have someone who makes you happy. God, the whole wedding thing makes me sentimental."

I lean forward and give her a kiss on the cheek, "Love you." Then I sit back again and continue, "I met a nice man last night, but he isn't interested in men. So we just drank together. Hence the hangover."

She takes a mouthful of cake – apple crumble – and says after she has chewed and swallowed, "It would probably be easier for you to find somebody if you just went to a gay bar or something." I have to smile because her voice turned to a whisper when she said "gay bar".

But then I shake my head and grimace, "Gay bars are horrible! It's a vanity fair, the music is terrible and 65 percent of the men just want to have sex. So I'll just go there when I'm really desperate. And I hope I will never ever be that desperate."

She nods approvingly, "I hope you won't, too. So, you're not bringing anyone to the wedding? What about your roommate? He seems nice." She winks. "And he looks really good."

Again, I blink in amazement. She's indeed behaving strangely. And her train of thoughts catches me off guard. So I stutter: "Should I bring him as a friend? Or as… I don't think he's interested in men. But maybe he is. Don't know. Are you… Are you trying to hook me up?" I haven't told you that I'm indeed interested in Jasper, have I? Well, I am. I don't have a crush on him, I certainly don't love him… just interested. But I haven't engaged myself in this direction so far, because a) I don't think he's gay, and b) I think it's a bad idea to hit on your roommate. Too complicated. But now that Mary has brought it up, I'm suddenly thinking about it again.

She grins, obviously enjoying my untypical insecurity, and answers coolly, "No, don't be ridiculous. I'm just saying. And come on! You don't know if he's homosexual? You two have been living together for two months now!"

"No, I don't know." I reply weakly and take another big gulp of coffee.

"Edward, you're supposed to be a great mathematician! Try to work it out." she says and stands up. "I have to meet the caterer now. I'll call you. Don't forget to buy a suit for the wedding. And get a damn good one. "Black tie", remember?" She gives me a kiss on the cheek, I nod absently and then she's gone, leaving me with my thoughts.

I walk my bike home, because I think headache plus brooding is too risky a combination to ride. Okay, I'll work it out. But I have to proceed logically. One routine after the other.

Has he ever mentioned that he's gay? No, not that I can remember. But neither has he mentioned that he's only into women. We've never talked about sexual preference.

Okay. Has he ever mentioned that he finds an actor or a male musician attractive? That's more difficult, because we've talked a lot about movies and music. I mull over it 'til I reach Columbus Circle, then I give it up. There's something in the back of my aching head, but I can't grasp it. So I try to stop thinking and get on my bike.

Later that afternoon, I'm lying on the couch trying to convince myself to eat something. But my stomach is of another opinion. Just as I'm about to get up and go to the kitchen, Jasper opens the door and comes in.

"Hey you," he says while he's taking off his black wool navy pea coat, "you came home late last night. Rough one?"

I admit that the fact that I thought so much about him today makes me feel nervous in his actual presence. So I just nod.

He frowns at me, confused about my reaction, and takes his shoes off. "Looks like you could use something to eat. I'll get something for you." Of course it sounds more like "I'll git somethin' for ya". That's because of his southern drawl. But I can't reproduce that in writing, so you'll just have to picture it.

He goes to the kitchen and my mind races frantically about whether or not I should ask him out. If he's not gay, it'll be absolutely embarrassing and then things will get odd between us. Suddenly it comes back to me... yes, he once mentioned as an aside that he finds Jack Lemmon attractive despite opinions to the contrary. But is this valuable evidence? Nowadays a man can say so without being gay. Plus, there is this little thing about him meeting mysterious PB. Perhaps he is in a relationship. But why doesn't he want anybody to know? Damn! What do I do?

When he comes back, carrying a plate with sandwiches, I'm close to a nervous breakdown. My mind races and my head hurts even more. Without even thinking, I sit up and ask almost harshly, "Like to grab a coffee tomorrow?"

He stops dead, blinks and looks at me. Minutes pass – at least it feels like it – and then he replies slowly, his face still a little blank, "Sure. Why not. What time?"

I exhale and say as confidently as I can muster, "4?"

He nods and sits down next to me.

I take a sandwich, he takes one and we sit in silence for the next awkward moments.

Suddenly he chuckles, pats me on the back and says cheerfully, his grass-green eyes sparkling, "Okay, tomorrow we'll grab a coffee and today we'll just pretend that you haven't asked me out. Deal?"

I give him a big grin, "Deal!" God, am I relieved.


	4. December the 7th

This is for all the reviewers out there!

**December the 7****th**

Yesterday, we agreed on meeting at Café Lalo on West 83rd Street at 4. Yes, I know, it's a little odd to make a date with your roommate at a different location than your apartment. At least it feels odd to me. The whole thing, to be honest, although I'm very glad that he's actually interested in men and that he has agreed to go out with me. Nevertheless, when I think about the whole thing, my head starts buzzing. God, there is a high, but not yet calculable probability that this will end in a catastrophe. Because we live together, because of PB, because of Jasper's unbalanced, yet fascinating personality, because of the fact that I tend to behave woodenly in the presence of people who are not my family.

See, I get along well with most people as long as it doesn't get too personal. If it does, I'm awkward. And then I come across as harsh and impolite. Just like yesterday when I asked him out. Sometimes I think I'm too self-conscious. I always picture how I and my actions may look from the outside. That makes me tense and nervous. And because I have pictured how strange it would be for us to sit together in the apartment until it's time for our date, I chose to leave it at 11 and went to the library.

That's where I am right now. It's the New York Public Library – the Schwarzman Building – on 5th Avenue at 42nd Street. I have just discovered that it's the perfect place to distract me from the highly delicate date. I'm in the main reading room and though there are other people it's so silent that you could hear a pin drop. It smells of books and wood and the murals on the tall, wood-paneled ceiling are impressive and make me feel comfortingly insignificant. I'm sitting at one of the long oak tables, reading "Peter Pan" in the light of a bronze lamp. And I stop worrying. It's almost like calculating a complex equation.

"Peter Pan" has always been my favorite children's book and Jasper's yesterday's reaction in the moment of absolute oddness made me want to read it again. He wasn't put off by my harshly worded question about grabbing a coffee and he wiped the oddness away just like that. I especially give him credit for the former. I experienced that before with him. He can handle awkwardness very well. I think that that is a good precondition. At least I hope it is. I have to say that he has something of Peter Pan about him. It's because of his big, grass-green eyes and because of his temperament. And his impartiality towards my strange behavior is almost childlike and innocent. He's not the least judgmental in this respect.

The afternoon goes by in a flash and finally it's time for me to get ready and leave for our date. Being aware of my tendency to drift off from reality, I have set the vibration alarm of my cell phone. I attend the restroom of the library, adjust my unruly hair with some of the wax I brought with me and take a close look in the mirror. My hair is in place. I have nothing between my teeth. My black button-down is spotless. The fly of my dark blue jeans is closed. But God, I look as nervous as I feel. My last date was too long ago. And the stakes are high now.

I stare at myself in the mirror and whisper, "Stop thinking. Just for once. You look good. I think you can be a nice, charming guy. You'll have a great date." Believe me, you should never talk to yourself in public, because at this moment, a door of one of the stalls opens and an older man comes out. He looks at me, grinning widely, and says," Good luck, son!" I smile forcedly, murmur "Thanks" and flee.

I take the subway to 79th Street and walk the rest of the way – down Broadway – to clear my head of thoughts. It works partially, because New York City can be damn distracting. I love this city for it. Though I hate the cold, I have to admit that it looks beautiful covered in snow. It's a sunny day and the trees seem to be made out of glittering cotton candy. All the hundreds of people on Broadway wear their winter clothes and the Christmas decorations in the shop windows are blinking and twinkling. New York fills my mind with numerous, yet simple sensations, so I'm almost calm when I reach Café Lalo.

I remove my jacket, hang it up on the coat rack and take a look around when I enter the café. It's crowded, but nevertheless cozy. The exposed, red brick walls, the wooden floor, the multitude of small items of decoration and the muted light make it look comfortable and homey. Then I spot Jasper at a table in the back of the room and wave to him slightly. He waves back. I run my fingers through my hair. Here we go.

He sits up and smiles at me. "Hey, Edward." He seems totally relaxed and not the slightest bit nervous and I start to relax, too.

"Hey, Jasper." I sit down. "Have you ordered already?"

"No, waited for you. I'll have a double espresso and a glass of water."

I nod, beckon to the waitress and order two double espressos and two glasses of water. Then I fall silent and contemplate Jasper. He just looks marvelous today. He wears a pair of high-waisted, black cotton slacks and a dark green, long sleeved button-down, which is tucked into his slacks. Old-fashioned, I know, but I like it. He tied his honey blond back in a ponytail. So I can see every inch of his good-looking face. Finally I notice his broad, puckish grin.

"See anything of interest?" His tone is slightly mocking.

I blush and clear my throat. "Yes, I'd say so."

"Nothing you haven't seen before."

God, this is embarrassing. But I manage to answer, "Yeah, but the perspective has changed."

"Aha," he raises his eyebrows inquiring and grins even wider. "Has changed to which perspective?" He sticks to his guns and seems to enjoy this conversation big time.

While I'm struggling to find a reasonable answer, I suddenly realize that he is trying to coax me out of my shell. It's kind of a game. If he were a different person, I would probably get annoyed or angry. But I know he doesn't want to expose me. He just wants me to open up. We have been living together for two months and have played this game before. Just in a wholly different context. So in a sense, I'm on familiar ground. And of course I won't back down.

I return his grin. "See, 'til now I didn't have to think about whether or not you're attractive. But now I have to check the goods to decide if they're worth the money."

He chuckles. "And, what do ya say?"

"I'm not sure yet. But I like the packaging."

He laughs and responds by quoting Lisa from Hitchcock's "The Rear Window". "Well, if there's one thing I know, it's how to wear the proper clothes." I give him a big grin, the waitress brings our order and I think I'll indeed have a great date.

For about an hour and a half we talk about Alfred Hitchcock movies and argue passionately about which is his best. Jasper tries to convince me that it's "Vertigo", but I'm sticking with "Psycho" and monologue about camera angles and lighting. He listens intently, asks questions and doesn't seem to be bored. Finally, there is a break in our conversation and his face becomes pensive. He stares past me, his gaze distant, and remains silent for about a minute. I sip at my second double espresso, look at his face and wait.

When he speaks at last, his voice is absent-minded: "Edward, what was the best moment of yer life?" He focuses his grass-green eyes on me.

"Uhm, difficult question. I have to think about that."

You know, I consider myself lucky, because I have – despite my social awkwardness – led a rather happy life so far. Okay, I had a pretty hard time in high school when I realized that I'm only interested in men. And it wasn't easy to confess that to my family, either. And there is this other thing. But overall, my life has been good. So it's not easy to pick a specific moment.

But then I smile. "Okay, the best moment of my life was the moment I discovered mathematics. That was in first grade. It's the best moment for two reasons. A)" I lift one finger "I gained access to a whole new world. And compared to reality, this world is pretty simple. But it has its own beauty in which I can partake. B)" I add a second finger "I found my calling."

He returns my smile and nods, "Good best moment."

I look at him inquiringly, but he doesn't say anything, so I ask, "And yours?"

He squirms slightly in his chair and rubs his temple. He looks uneasy and I'm not sure if he'll answer my question. But finally he takes a deep breath, returns my glance, stops squirming and says resolutely, "The best moment of my life was the moment I boarded the Greyhound in Shreveport to go to New York." He leans back almost defiantly which signals me that he doesn't want to explain why this was the best moment. But I'm surprised that he has answered at all, because this refers to his past. And the way he said it shows that he didn't leave Shreveport for merry reasons. Seems I was right: Dark past. I won't ask for the worst moment of his life now.

Our conversation turns toward lighter topics. We switch from coffee to Budweiser at 8, start to construct a house out of beer coasters at 9 and leave at 10, a little squiffy. I pay.

When we stand in front of the café, I say, "Let's go to Central Park. As soon as we return to the apartment, it'll get weird. I'm sure…" Obviously, the alcohol loosened my tongue.

Jasper smiles and I realize that his smile is even bigger when he's primed. And his southern drawl gets heavier. I have to concentrate to understand him. "Yeah, yer right. Let's make another deal… long as we're in the apartment, we're just roommates. K?" He holds his hand out to me.

I shake it and nod. "Okay!"

He spontaneously puts an arm around me, his eyes gleaming, lights a cigarette and starts walking. He drags me with him and begins to sings vociferously. It's an outbreak of temperament, not of alcohol. "Oh, show me the way t' the next whiskey bar. Oh, don't ask why. Oh, don't ask why. Fer if we don't find the next whiskey bar. I tell ya we must die. I tell ya we must die." God, his raspy voice is perfect.

Finally we end up sitting on a snow covered bench in Central Park. While I am huddled against the cold and rub my hands together to warm them up, he is leaned back and his legs are stretched out. He looks content and confident. I bend forward, he looks at me and I give him a light kiss on the lips. He returns my kiss, we smile at each other stupidly for about a minute and then he grabs a handful of snow and shoves it down the back of my jacket. Damn, he's a mean pixie.


	5. December the 8th and 9th

Hey there! I want to thank everyone who reviewed my story, added it to their watch list or even to their list of favorite stories. I'm absolutely amazed!

Maybe I should add the following: While some of locations really exist (for example Café Lalo or the building in which the apartment is located), all persons and events are fictional.

**December the 8****th**

It's the next morning, I'm lying in my bed under the electric blanket and think about yesterday.

Last night, we had just that one innocent, completely tongueless kiss. Nothing more, but nothing less either. I didn't plan it. If somebody had told me yesterday morning that I would kiss Jasper at night, I would have declared him insane. Normally, I would never kiss a man on the first date. Call me old-fashioned, but I think that that would be flippant and precipitous. You can't know a person after the first date. At least not well enough to share such an intimate touch. But it's different with Jasper, because I already know him. Not sufficiently of course, but well enough for this innocent kiss. And it was a thing of the moment. He looked so peaceful, confident and good in the surroundings of my beloved nature. And the date had been great. And, okay, I was squiffy. So I kissed him.

I don't know what Jasper thinks about the kiss, but I enjoyed it. His broad lips were soft and the touch tingled in a good way. But beside the sensation of kissing him, the whole thing had another significance to me. It was like a starter's flag, a symbol of the possibility that my interest in him is not futile, that he is interested in me, too.

But maybe he just wanted to have a little fun. Maybe he just returned my kiss because he was drunk. Maybe he did so out of pity. Damn it, I'm starting to overthink again. And if I do, I'll do something irrational and – worst of all – stupid. Oh God, distract yourself, distract yourself.

I begin to derive Euler's identity in my head, but it doesn't work very well.

Euler's formula states that e to the power of ix equals cos x plus i sin x for any real number x.

Maybe he just wanted to do me a favor.

In particular, e to the power of iπ equals cos π plus i sin π.

Will our deal work?

Since cos π equals -1 and sin π equals 0,

Maybe he enjoyed the kiss, too.

it follows that e in the power of iπ equals -1.

But what is it with PB?

Which gives the identity e in the powers of iπ plus 1 equals 0.

Oh, I have forgotten to give him the cigarette case.

Perhaps I haven't really forgotten. I think I subconsciously don't want to hand it over to him. If he has an intimate relationship with the person behind the initials, I want him to forget this obviously sneaky person. I don't want him to return the case. But I won't yield to my subconsciousness. Trickery is not my cup of tea. And dishonesty isn't either.

I pull back the duvet and sit up, sighing. God, I'm an idiot. I grab my cobalt blue bathrobe and throw it on. Then I open the top drawer of my mahogany desk, which is an heirloom of my grandma, and pick up the cigarette case. I can hear Jasper in the living room, so I run my fingers through my hair before I leave my room. We may have our deal, but I still want to look good in his presence.

He's sitting on the Chesterfield in front of the flat-screen TV and is playing "Batman: Arkham Asylum" on the PS3 – our mutual favorite game. His gaze is focused, his eyebrows knitted in concentration, but when he sees me from the corner of his eye he pauses the game and looks at me, smiling brightly. "Hey Edward! You slept well?"

For a moment, his smile distracts me from my plan. It is so open and unguarded. I could never smile like that. "Yeah," I murmur absently, "soundly… like a baby."

"Good." He says, "And? Feeling ill?"

I don't know why he asks that, but I answer nevertheless, still distracted, "No, not at all."

He grins impishly. "See, told you that bit of snow wouldn't kill you."

Ah, now I remember. I grimace, "Okay, it hasn't killed me…. yet. But you're the devil anyway."

He laughs and stands up. "Coffee?" I nod and he goes through the open passageway in the kitchen. I sit down on the couch, cross-legged, and close my fist over the cigarette case.

Okay, obviously the thing with our deal works. He doesn't act strangely, I don't feel awkward. The mood is relaxed. And so far we have behaved like we are just roommates. That solves at least one of my problems. The other one is in my fist.

He comes back, carrying two mugs of coffee, sits down next to me and hands me one of the mugs. Then he sees the item in my fist and asks, just as curious a person as I am: "What's that?"

I clear my throat and present the case to him. "I found this in a crevice of the couch. I've never seen it before. Is it yours?"

His mood changes immediately. The expression on Jasper's face changes from open and good-tempered to grim and unapproachable. "No, not mine," his voice sounds strained. He takes the cigarette case out of my hand and stands up abruptly. "I'm gonna go for a walk." He shoves the case into the pocket of his dark grey slacks, grabs his cell phone and his keys from the coffee table and leaves the apartment, slamming the door behind him. I'm not angry about his behavior, I'm worried. God, what is it with PB? Why does everything that has something to do with this person get Jasper so upset? Again, I think hard about whether or not I know a person with the initials PB. But finally I decide that I don't know such a person.

I drink my coffee, have something to eat, play "Arkham Asylum" and receive a call from my boss, who tells me I have to attend to a meeting with members of the CUNY-Administration tomorrow at 4. Two hours later my cell phone rings.

"Edward Masen."

"Hey!" It's Jasper.

"Hey, Jasper. Everything's fine?"

"Yeah," I can hear the noises of the city in the background. "Wanna go to the movies on Tuesday?"

Tuesday? To say I'm baffled is an understatement. "Tuesday?" I ask incredulously.

"That's right. Tuesday. The movies. You up for it?" He sounds slightly impatient. And stressed.

"Of course. What time?"

"8?"

"Sure."

"See you later." He hangs up.

I stare into space and feel railroaded. Okay, seems like we'll have our second date. On Tuesday. Why Tuesday? I don't understand it. I had to leave the apartment every single Tuesday for two months because of the mysterious person and suddenly he changes the arrangement. Maybe that's a good sign. Maybe he thinks that things between us will get serious. Maybe… No mathematical derivation can stop my thoughts now.

**December the 9****th**

It's 7 p.m. and I'm sitting on a bench in Central Park. And I'm shocked. Now I know to whom the cigarette case belongs.

You know that I had my meeting today. Every month the members of the administration come together to discuss questions of funding and to coordinate expenses. According to my job requirements, I have to attend to these meetings. As usual, it was in Carol Milroy's office and several vice-chancellors for different areas of concern were present. I'd rather teach preschool math than participate in those meetings, because they're usually too long and too boring. But I have no choice. And as always it was too long and too boring.

I sat at the table, listened with only half an ear, scribbled in my notebook, drank coffee and thought about – you've probably guessed it – Jasper. Finally the meeting ended, I got my bike and left the building together with other members of the administration. And then it happened.

The Executive Vice Chancellor and Chief Operating Officer David Collister and the Chancellor Laurence Bennett were standing in front of the building having a conversation. They're both in their early fifties and have served the university for many years. While I maneuvered my bike around them, the Chancellor pulled something out of the pocket of his grey, obviously expensive jacket. And I stopped dead. It was the cigarette case.

I spoke before I thought, "That's a beautiful cigarette case, Sir."

He looked at me, irritated and slightly dismissive, knitting his bushy dark eyebrows. "Indeed. It belonged to my great-grandfather."

"Ah," I murmured, "but the initials."

The expression in his eyes got more irritated, "My great-grandfather's name was Peter Bennett. Hence the initials."

I nodded and added weakly, "I see. Well, it's nice." And then I got on my bike and left. He probably thought I was strange, but it didn't matter to me.

Laurence Bennett is 51 years old, married, has two children and an affair with my roommate. Now I understand why nobody is allowed to know.


	6. December the 10th

Hey everyone! I had a very busy week and little time to write. But here is the update! Let me know what you think.

**December the 10****th**

I look at myself in the mirror and adjust my ponytail. I hate the washroom at work. The white tiles and the smell of disinfectant remind me of a loony bin. It makes me feel queasy. But I have to fight it, I won't back down. I'm too sullen for that. I'll beat the memories.

But speaking of loony…

Edward acted strange this morning when we drank coffee together. He said ten words tops and stared in his mug like he had lost something in the coffee. He didn't answer my questions, like if he was okay and stuff. Instead he ran his fingers nervously through his hair, which looked like Edward Scissorhands' afterwards, and avoided my eyes. Don't know why. Maybe it has something to do with our deal. But it seems to work just fine. I think I'll just wait 'til he's ready to talk. It's not good to ask too many questions, at least it's never gotten me anywhere.

The change in our relationship surprised me big time. In a good way, I guess. Not sure yet. I'm still suspicious about the suddenness of the whole thing. For two month Edward didn't ask me out. He never even hinted at that he was interested in me. Yeah, I knew he was gay. He hadn't made a secret out of it. But I was preoccupied with something else and I thought that I just wasn't his cup of tea. And now this. Maybe he was just too shy to make a first move earlier.

Edward is a very nice guy. He's funny, he's smart, he's honest, he's kind and almost caring sometimes. Yeah, from time to time he treats people a little bit harshly. But I don't think it's intentional. He's just nervous when it comes to people. And he's real whiny about cold weather. I just don't get that. But overall, he's a good man.

Maybe he's too good for me. Just look at the kiss he gave me. It was nice and absolutely innocent. Innocent! I got a totally innocent kiss! I didn't even know that kisses could be so innocent. I gave and got passionate kisses, rough kisses, wild kisses, but never innocent ones. It took me by surprise, which says a lot about my ability to have a normal or even truly romantic relationship. Sex is my familiar ground, cuddling and candlelight isn't. So is it fair to Edward to go further? Maybe I'll fuck him and the whole thing up. Lord, I would hate myself for that! However… I enjoyed the kiss! I was surprised that I was able to return it without groping him. The snowball fight afterward was a good way to prevent me from starting with that. Just to be sure that I wouldn't spoil the moment. And the kiss made me think. Suddenly the thing with Laurence seemed even worse than before. And when Edward gave me the cigarette case, I took it as a sign and decided to end the thing. So I gathered all my will power, called Laurence and told him that…

My cell phone rings, I pull it out of my pants pocket and look at the display. Speak of the devil…

"Laurence, what do ya want?"

"Hello Jasper. How are you?" His deep voice sends shivers down my spine. I hate that he has this power over me.

"Thanks. Fine. What do ya want?" I try to sound unconcerned, but it doesn't work. I just sound desperate and bitter.

"Jasper, listen, I know you told me that you don't want to meet me anymore, but I want to see you."

"Sure ya do. Yer horny."

"Jasper, honey, you know that's not true. I miss you. I miss talking to you. I miss your laughter." He sounds truly hurt and I feel my will power crumble. I take a deep breath and remain silent.

"Jasper, please! There is something I want to tell you. It's important."

I take another deep breath. "What is it?"

"I don't want to tell you on the phone. Can't we meet at the apartment today, honey?"

"I have a date tonight."

There is a pause, then he asks incredulously, "You have a date?"

"Yeah, a date. I'm going to the movies with a very nice guy. And unlike ya, he's unattached."

There is another pause.

"I understand. But maybe we can meet anyway. It won't take long, I promise." The tone of his deep voice is almost begging.

I struggle with myself and lose. "Okay, at 7 at the apartment." I hang up and stare at myself in the mirror. Then I strike out and hit my fist hard against one of the white tiles. Fuck! Why am I so fucking stupid? I reach into my pocket and dig out my cigarettes. While I light one, I examine the bleeding knuckles of my right hand. I shouldn't meet him. It's no good. I take a drag, look at my cell phone and dial Edward's number.

"Edward Masen."

"Hey, Edward. It's me. Listen, are ya going to the theater directly after work?"

"Yes, it's busy today. Why?" He sounds strangely wary.

"I just wanted to tell ya that maybe I'll be a little late tonight. But don't worry. I'll show up. Okay?"

"No problem. I'll buy the tickets and wait for you in front of the theater."

"Great, thanks. I see ya later."

"See you later." After a moment he adds, "I'm looking forward to tonight." I hear a smile in his voice and I have to smile, too. Lord, he's nice.

"Me, too. Bye." I hang up, smoke my cigarette and promise myself that I'll get rid of Laurence today.

I haven't made coffee or sandwiches. I haven't switched the stereo on or put a bottle of champagne in the fridge. I just haven't set up anything. I'll listen to what he's gotta say and then I'll say goodbye. And that will be that. I light another cigarette. Edward and I have made the deal that I only smoke at the window. But I'm too nervous to abide by the agreement. I look at the display of my cell phone. 6:55. The door bell rings. As always, he's on time. I'm already feeling unhappy. I open the door and sit down on the Chesterfield.

"Good evening, Jasper."

I look at Laurence. He resembles Cary Grant. Especially because of his brown eyes. He's wearing his best dark grey suit, every strand of his thick black hair is in place and he's smiling at me. And Lord, he has brought me flowers. White roses. That makes me mad. I jump up and gesture rudely in his direction. "What's up with the flowers? I'm not your fucking mistress!" I grab the roses out of his hands and hurl them on the parquet. I'm breathing heavily and I feel tears dwelling in my eyes. Fuck, how old am I? Five? I turn around sharply so he won't see my tears and clench my fists. My fingernails gouge into the flesh of my palms.

"Jasper, I'm sorry. I didn't want to upset you." He puts a soft hand on my shoulder and I let him do so.

"Well, ya have." I gulp hard.

He caresses my shoulder gently and I shiver. "Darling, you've told me that you don't have much time. Don't you want to hear what I have to say?"

I take one step forward so he can't touch me anymore and sit down again. I light another cigarette, then I look at him again and nod. "Okay, say whatcha gotta say and then go."

He sits down in one of the two green wing chairs and leans forward. "I know I haven't treated you very well in the past few months. I said that I would leave my wife so that we could have a real relationship, but I haven't done it yet. However," he gestures imploringly," after you told me that you don't want to see me anymore, I realized that I can't live without you. I need you, Jasper." He reaches out and touches my hand.

I take a drag and look at his hand. Lord, why do I have to love him? But maybe he's serious this time. I look into his eyes. They're full of desperation and honest entreaty. I want to believe him. God, how I want to believe him. He makes me feel like I belong somewhere, like somebody actually cares about me. With him, I can relax. I don't have to fight my dark thoughts.

He smiles lightly and whispers, "I promise that I'll leave her, Jasper. I swear." He lifts my hand, turns it and places a kiss in the middle of the palm.

I gulp hard again and reply quietly, "I'll do a stupid thing if you are lying." It's no threat, it's just a fact. I know myself well enough.

He squeezes my hand softly. "This is not a lie, honey. I need you."

I take another drag and cast a glance at the wall clock. 7:30. Edward is waiting for me at the theater. If I don't set off now, I'll be late. Edward…

Just as I'm about to pull my hand away, Laurence squeezes it again and whispers, "I love you, Jasper."

I stare at him, probably looking like a hypnotized bunny. "Ya… you love me?" He has never said that before.

He nods and plants another kiss in my palm.

I stand up and sit down on his lap. Then I wrap one arm around him, nestle up against him as closely as possible and give him a passionate, rough and wild kiss.

It's not the first time I've broken a promise to myself.


	7. 10 years ago

Hello everybody! I'm too damn busy these days. I have to learn for an exam that takes place at the end of November. But I'm sorry it took me so long to update.

This chapter is for my great and incredible beta Kristen618. Thank you for everything!

**10 years ago**

_JPOV_

My nose is bleeding. The blood is dripping from the tip onto the pavement between my feet. The godawful stuff my pusher sells me always makes my nose bleed. But the pain doesn't bother me, I just hope and beg for the effect of the coke to kick in. Jesus, it takes too long. I wipe a tear off my cheek, the blood off my nose and dig in the pockets of my jeans for my cigarettes. I light one with slightly trembling fingers, take a drag and then a look around to distract myself.

This alley almost feels like home. More than my actual one. It's narrow, dark and dirty, but I'm the only one that comes here. It's my own alley. I've been living here for almost half a year. I've built my nest in a corner under the landing of a rusty fire escape. I've put a piece of metal sheeting on the landing so I won't get wet when it rains. I have some blankets, some pillows, an old wooden chest I can lock and a plant in a pot. A green one without blossoms. I dunno what kind it is. All my stuff is in the chest. Some of my clothes, some of my books, my Game Boy, stuff I need for school. That's about it. My other things are in the house of my father, but I've promised myself that I'll never go back there again. I can't bear to see the stupid, stupid fucker. He makes me feel miserable. Worse than that.

I look down and stare at my math book that lies open in my lap. I try to focus on the math problems that I have for homework, but I can't concentrate. I'm constantly thinking about ma and I just want the fucking drug to work, work, WORK. I don't realize that my nose is still bleeding and so a drop of red falls on the open page. I sniff and wipe over the page, which just spreads the blood. If somebody asks about the strange stain at school, I'll tell them that it's tomato sauce. But it's unlikely that somebody will ask. Claudia at the most.

At a moment's notice, it starts to rain. It's not unusual for Shreveport in spring and it doesn't bother me much. But I don't want my book to get even more ruined, so I crawl deeper into my nest. My stomach aches with hunger.

"_Mommy, can we go outside and play baseball?"_

"_No, sweetie. Look, it's raining like crazy. We'll just get wet. And the ball will be too slippery to play."_

"_Please, please, please!"_

"_No. Oh no, don't pout. I'll tell ya what we're gonna do. I'll make ya a cup of cocoa and we'll sing a song together. Come here."_

"_Can we sing "Itsy Bitsy Spider"?"_

"_You're a little too old for that, sweetie, don't ya think?"_

"_Yeah. But I want the "Itsy Bitsy Spider"."_

"_Okay, pumpkin. Ya ready?"_

I cry hard and the words come out between dry sobs as I sing.

"The itsy bitsy spider went up the water spout. Down came the rain, and washed the spider out. Up came the sun, and dried up all the rain, and the itsy bitsy spider went up the spout again."

I squeeze one of the blankets against my chest. "Ma, I miss you so much. So darn much. I… I…"

And finally, finally, the drug kicks in. My heart makes a leap and off I go. Everything begins to feel real good and I want to do something… something… anything. I grab my book, my notebook, a pencil and start to work on the problems.

I fly high for about half an hour. The numbers dance before my eyes and I dance with them. It's an easy dance, it satisfies me. My body tingles. Everything's bright, everything flows, everything's full of energy, everything makes sense. I'm in the eye of this beautiful storm. I'm out of orbit. Nothing can hurt me. I feel wonderful, ecstatic.

And then I crash. Hard. It hurts. I hurt badly… my head, my heart, my whole body. I scratch the back of my hand 'til it bleeds. I can't stay here. I gotta see her.

On the way to my destination, I climb over the wall of a back yard that belongs to a flower shop. I hope to find some yellow roses in the dumpster. Some yellow roses that are in okay shape. Just as I'm about to rifle through the trash, I hear the barking of a dog. Fuck! I leg it and manage to climb the wall again before the dog takes a bite out of me, but I shred my jeans in process. I stare at the shop window of the flower shop and wish I had some money. There they are, out of reach: Yellow roses. They are ma's favorite.

It's still raining like crazy and it's almost dark when I enter the cemetery. If I had a flashlight, I would've brought it with me. I can see only shapes in the dim light. I stumble over graves and knock against headstones. I think I might've sprained my ankle when I almost fell into a freshly dug grave. I'm soaking wet. The water pours down on me. My shredded jeans and my t-shirt stick to my body and my hair is pasted to my skull. God has no mercy for me today.

Finally I reach the familiar place under the Red Maple tree. There is her grave. I kneel down. "Hey, ma. It's me, Jasper. Happy birthday!"

I press my forehead against the wet earth. "Sorry, I couldn't bring you roses. I'm broke. I spent my last money on coke." I start to cry again… so hard I can barely breathe. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry."

My fingers dig into the ground. "Oh, ma, I'm so fucked up. I don't know what to do. I'm so hungry. I'm a fucking addict. I miss you so much. I hate my life. I hate being here without you. I can't stand it anymore. What should I do? What should I do?" My sobs choke my words.

I kneel there, crying. Suddenly, I hear a noise behind me. Sounds like a footstep. I think about looking up. Maybe it's a robber. Or worse. But I don't care at the moment.

"Jasper." It takes me a moment to recognize Claudia's voice. But since I can't stop crying, I can't answer her.

I hear her footsteps next to me. Then I feel her hand touching my right shoulder softly.

"I knew you would be here, Jasper." Her voice is gentle and soft. "I brought flowers for the grave."

Now I look up and to the side. The first thing I see are her big blue eyes behind her glasses, then I see the yellow roses in her right hand. "Yellow roses?" I stammer. My crying gets hysterical.

Next thing I know I'm lying on the wet earth, my head in Claudia's lap. It's still raining. I can't remember when I stopped crying. She is stroking my hair softly. I cover my face with my hands. "I'm sorry." I mumble.

"It's okay." She says. "It's your mother's birthday. So I'm the one who's sorry."

"Ya have a cig?" I ask and lower my hands so I can look at her.

"No, I don't smoke. You know that." She brushes a strand of her black, wet hair behind her ear.

"Yeah, I know that." I murmur. Claudia continues to stroke my hair as I lay in her lap and I am suddenly aware of the awkwardness of the situation. Why is she doing this? Her touch makes my nerves tingle. It feels odd. Plus, why is she even here? We don't know each other that well. Did I really tell her about ma? Damn, I can't recall it. I shudder and sit up.

She remains silent for a moment, then she says, hesitantly, "Jasper, you don't look good. Maybe you should go back to your father. I'm sure he misses…"

She can't finish her sentence, because I jump up and yell, my voice hoarse, "No, Claudia, he does not fucking miss me! He thinks I'm useless and a pain in the ass! He fucking loathes me!" I stare at her, my hands clenched into fists. "I won't go back. I've promised myself…"

She interrupts me by shouting abruptly, "Forget what you've promised yourself! You're gonna die if you stay out on the streets. I don't want you to die!" She throws her arms around me without warning.

I stand there, paralyzed. It's been a long time since anyone gave me a hug.

"Jasper, I really like you." She whispers, her arms clasping me with all the strength her thin body can muster. "_I_ will miss you if you die."

She _likes_ me? I didn't know that. She never told me. My heart makes a small leap. And this time it's not the coke that causes it. "You like me? I mean… Really?"

"Yeah." She says in a small voice.

I place one arm around her carefully. "You know I'm gay, don't you?" I ask quietly, because I don't want to mislead her. A bad conscience would kill me now. Literally.

"Yeah." She whispers again. "I just like you."

God, I have to know. So I ask, "Why?"

"You're passionate and you're tender at the same time." She answers without hesitation and squeezes me slightly.

I just can't believe it. She's just some kind of… dunno… school friend I have math class with. Yeah, she's always kind to me, but I thought that was just her way of treating people. And now she says she likes me. Specifically me! For some very strange reason. So I just can't believe it. But I desperately want to. So I place my other arm around her, too. "You sure?" I add.

"Yeah, I am." She chuckles, then her voice gets serious again, "So please, go back to your father."

I lean against her a little bit. It feels too damn good. I think I'll break my promise.

Two hours later, I stand in front of the small wooden house, the chest behind me. I'm feeling sick, but Claudia asked me to return home, so here I am. At my father's house… my so-called home. I knock at the screen door. A minute later, he opens the door and looks at me, his grass-green eyes cold.

"Ah, you're back." He says after a long moment of silence and turns around.


	8. December the 11th

Olá everybody! Here is the new chapter. Please let me know what you think!

Note:

1) Thank you, Kristen, for your wonderful work! You're the best "grammar Rambo" in the world! And much more…

2) There is a model for Will, but it's not Carlisle. Watch "Buffy", then you'll know.

**December the 11****th**

I waited 'til 8:30 in front of the theatre, but Jasper didn't show up. So I bought a bag of popcorn and a big coke and watched Charlie Chaplin's "The Kid" on my own. Nothing is so depressing as to sit alone in a cinema and watch a movie. At least that's the way I feel about it. All around me there were couples kissing, friends who were laughing together and families that were having themselves a good time, whereas I had only a bag of popcorn to accompany me. A bag of popcorn has even less social skills than I have and you certainly can't make out with it… not that I tried, don't worry.

So, as you can imagine, I didn't pay much attention to the movie. Instead I thought about why Jasper hadn't come and, frankly, I felt fucked over. He stood me up. I tried to convince myself that he had had serious reasons for not showing up for our date, but in my heart I doubted that. His voice had sounded strange when he had called me before and his questioning if I was going to the movies directly after work had raised my suspicion. And my suspicion was that he was meeting Laurence at our apartment. I seriously thought about returning to our apartment instead of watching the movie to catch them red-handed, but I didn't have the heart to do it. Even if a small part of me believed that Jasper deserved it, the larger part thought that such behavior would be childish and unacceptable. A dramatic entrance is definitely not my style. I honestly wouldn't even know how to do it.

It was 10 when I left the theatre. The thought of going home while Jasper could still be awake was unacceptable to me. I didn't want to talk to him at that moment. I just wouldn't be able to have any kind of conversation with him that deserved the name "conversation". I was too angry, too sad, too disappointed and too stumped for something like that. So I went to the Flatiron Lounge – that's the bar I've told you about – at Flatiron District. I sat down at the bar and ordered an Aviation. Then I ordered another… and then another.

My cell phone now says that it's 12:10 am. I stare into my cocktail glass. Only the cherry is left. I take one of the toothpicks from the glass that stands on the mahogany bar and try to spike the cherry. It doesn't work, because my hand-eye coordination is way off at the moment. So I give up and use my fingers.

Jazz is playing in the background. The bar is not very crowded. Two other men are sitting at the bar and a couple is cuddled up to each other in the dim light of a corner booth. In my current state of mind I find the latter rather offensive. I think the looks I cast them can be described as almost hostile. Ugh! Now they are kissing each other gently… so gently that I really think they are in love. I let my forehead sink against the cool wood of the bar with a small thump and lift a hand. "Bartender! Bring me another Aviation… please!"

Oh God, why did I have to listen to Mary? If I hadn't, I would be lying in my cozy bed now, maybe not happy, but perfectly content. I wouldn't have to think about Jasper and I wouldn't be hurt. And why… I knock my forehead lightly against the bar… why haven't I confronted him regarding Laurence? If I had, maybe he wouldn't have met him today. I've passed up a golden opportunity to influence what is happening between us. Instead I've remained silent and pretended like I didn't know. Why?

Of course I have a clue why I haven't confronted him. I'm too damn reserved and I really don't like confrontations.

But the biggest question of all is: Why has Jasper stood me up?

"Stupid idiot," I whisper.

"Pardon? Are you talking to me?"

I lift my head slowly and look up. Will, the bartender, is standing in front of me on the other side of the bar, my drink in his hand, and is looking at me with a crooked eyebrow and a slight grin. I've known him for some time, because – as I've told you – I come here frequently. He's a nice, good-looking guy who works here to pay for medical school. If my calculations are correct, he should complete his degree sometime soon. As far as I can remember his father is an Englishman.

"No, Will. Sorry, didn't mean you." I realize that my voice is not as clear as it was and I'm actually mumbling…. and I think I skipped some words?

Will places the drink in front of me and takes a short look around, then he leans forward. "Okay. Listen, Edward, I'm the bartender and you seem to have a problem. So shoot!"

"God, whatta cliché," I drawl, but then I continue anyway, "My sister told me to ask my roommate Jasper out… because of the wedding. I did, we kissed. Everything was fine. Wait, not everything, because of PB… I mean LB. He… I mean my roommate Jasper… is dating this 700 year old guy who has two kids and a wife. But then he… roommate… Jasper… asked me out… today. But he stood me up. He'd rather boink LB… sorry… he'd rather meet LB. Oh why…" I grab for my glass and take a big gulp.

Will reaches out and pats my shoulder, the expression in his steel blue eyes sympathetic. "I'm not sure if I got everything. But your problem is that your roommate is dating you and another guy at the same time, right?"

"Partly," I say. "My other problem is that I'm an imbecile who can't confront anybody." I moan and gesture with both of my hands desperately, spilling half of my cocktail.

"What's that supposed to mean?" Will asks, his deep voice sounding definitely confused.

"Jasper doesn't want anybody to know who he's dating… but I found out. But instead of talking to him about it and telling him to stop dating the snobby grandpa, I kept silent like an insecure little girl. Not that I have a problem if somebody dates a grandpa… it's okay… I mean… God, I'm a wimp." I down the rest of my drink and choke on the stupid cherry in process.

Will reaches over the bar and beats my back with one hand as I'm coughing wildly and says, "I'm sure you're not a wimp."

When I'm able to catch my breath again, he stops beating my back. "Thanks," I croak. I take a deep breath and wipe a tear out off the corner of my eye. "Why am I not a wimp?"

Will gets a glass from below the bar, fills it with water and places it in front of me. "Here. This one's on the house. Okay, you've told me that you've just started to date your roommate. If you want my honest opinion, which you obviously do," he winks at me," it's not wise to start a romance with a confrontation and demands."

"You really think so?" I ask, still a little hoarse, and take a mouthful of water.

"Yes. You can have plenty of confrontations when you're actually a couple. You need to have an established relationship before you start demanding things of him. I mean, come on. You can't go to him and say," he disguises this voice so that it sounds even deeper, ""Hey, peaches. We went out once. I know you're dating this other guy. I want you to stop! Is that understood?" Caveman style is definitely out of fashion, isn't it?" He grins at me.

I have to grin, too, but then another thought comes to my mind. "But isn't it dishonest to not at least tell him that I know?"

Will shrugs. "Maybe, though I think that that's a difficult question. I just wanted to state that you're not a wimp… and that this Jasper's really an idiot for standing you up." He runs his fingers through his short, bleached blond hair while he smiles at me.

"Yeah, he is," I answer sighing and stare at the bottles of booze behind Will. I have to admit that he has his point, but that… "doesn't solve my main problem."

I only realize that I've spoken the last words out aloud, because Will knits his eyebrows and asks, "Gosh, that was _not_ even your main problem?"

I blink and try to focus my gaze on him. "Yes… the worst part of this whole big problem is that we live in the same apartment and I don't want to talk to him at the moment. There is a high possibility – 80 percent by my estimation – that he will still be awake when I get home and I just don't want to see him."

"Gee, 80 percent? That's a lot." He falls silent and just looks at me for a moment. I take the time to think about whether or not his words had an ironic vibe to them. I don't come to a conclusion, but only realize how completely drunk I am.

Will's voice draws my attention again. "I have a proposal," he says. "I'm going to close the bar in half an hour and go home to my apartment. You could come with me and stay for the night. That way you wouldn't have to see Jasper. What do you say?" His steel blue eyes are watching me intensely.

In my alcoholic haze I think that this is a really good idea. Yeah, if I slept over at Will's, I wouldn't have to see Jasper tonight. Great! Fantastic! That would make me feel less bad. So I nod and smile at him, a little more brightly than I usually would. "That's really kind of you, Will. I'll take the offer. Thank you very much!"

He touches the back of my right hand briefly. "See you in half an hour then." He smiles at me again and then turns to another customer.

Seems like he's succeeded in putting me at ease a bit (and I think the alcohol's helping a lot), because I manage to pass the time without thinking too much about my misery. After Will has closed the bar, we walk to his apartment. He tells me that it's just around the corner… which is a good thing because my steps are a little unstable.

Approximately eight minutes later we arrive at his apartment on the third floor of an awful modern building. "I hate modern architecture," I mumble while he unlocks the door.

He opens it, switches the light on, steps into a narrow corridor with three doors (the entrance door not included) and replies, while taking off his black coat, "I don't care as long as the bathroom's modern."

"I love bath tubs. They are filled with hot water," I slur and writhe myself out of my leather jacket, which is surprisingly difficult at the moment.

Will chuckles. "Gosh, you're horribly drunk!" He takes my jacket and hangs it up in a walk-in closet which is behind the door on the right side. "Make yourself at home. There's the living room slash bedroom slash kitchen." He nods towards another door.

"Yessir. Am drunk. Horribly drunk, sir," I hiccup, open the door and turn the light on.

The room I see is not what I expected… even if I haven't expected much in my current state because my imagination is kind of blurry. The room is big and painted in an awkward dark red color. It smells of incense. Posters of strange looking musicians in black and red checked pattern clothes are covering a good portion of the walls and a fluffy purple carpet is spread on the floor. There is a small kitchenette in one corner and two huge black bookshelves in another, but what really dominates the room is a gigantic four-poster bed with a black canopy. "Wow," I say and stop dead, "that's the biggest bed I've ever seen."

"You like it?" Will asks with a crooked eyebrow while he goes over to his refrigerator. "Would you like a beer?"

"Not sure… about the bed I mean. But a 100 percent "yes" to the other question." I sit down on the couch in the middle of the room which is covered with an oriental looking blanket and some equally oriental looking pillows. I stare over at the bed and a thought starts to form in the back of my foggy head. I look at Will, who comes over to the couch with two bottles of beer. "Tell me," I slur while he passes me one bottle and sits down next to me, "have you brought me here for… you know?" God, I really talk too much when I'm drunk. "Forget it."

He undoes his black tie with one hand and returns my look nonchalantly with his steel blue eyes, "You mean for sex? Yes, that's the case."

I've never heard anyone say something like that in such a blunt way. I gape at him, probably blushing to the Xth degree, and don't know what to respond. Finally I ask weakly, "Really?"

He takes a sip of his beer, grins like the Cheshire Cat and says, his deep voice sounding a little bit like a rumble, "Yeah, Edward. I thought that that was kind of obvious. Either my signals were not clear enough or you're more plastered than I thought. In my opinion it's the latter."

I take a big gulp of beer. On closer examination his signals have been pretty clear. The winks, the intense looks, the light touches. "Yes, I agree," I mumble and fall silent. I don't know what to do. I don't know what to say. Seems like that's a state I will have to get used to.

Without turning his eyes from me, Will opens the buttons of the black vest he's wearing over a white button-down. He's still grinning. "I'm a little bit offended now. Usually this would be the moment where you get all enthusiastic and say something like "Yeah! Let's have sex!" or just go for it. Are you planning on doing anything like that?"

I play with the bottle in my hand and take a closer look at him. His posture is relaxed. He's settled back next to me with his legs apart, his tie hanging loosely around his neck, the buttons of his vest completely open now. One of his hands rests on his thigh while the other one holds the bottle and I notice how muscular his hands are. I guess that just happens when you're a medical student and a bartender. His bleached hair is gelled back and poses a sharp contrast to his almost black eyebrows. Finally I look at his face. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, but only now do I realize that he's not just good-looking, he's stunning. Though he doesn't look anything like Jasper. His face is all sharp edges and geometrical bone structure. And his steel blue eyes can only be described as piercing. Yeah, he's sexy and I'm needy for intimacy and affection at the moment. On the other hand, I really don't enjoy one-night stands and who I really want is Jasper. Will starts to brush his own thigh lightly, barely perceivable, and it's the most erotic thing I've seen in a while. God, the last time was a long time ago.

"I'm not sure," I mumble and shift a little bit because I feel the urge to move.

"Okay," he replies. Then he leans towards me, his eyes bore into mine and he purrs, "I won't ask you again, but if you change your mind the offer stands, Edward." The sound of his voice sends shivers down my spine. He stands up, his beer in his hand, and goes over to the stereo. "Do you know "Monster Magnet"?" he asks while he switches it on.

"No, never heard of them," I answer and take another big gulp of beer. Damn, my jeans are very uncomfortable at the moment.

"That's a shame. Well then…" He presses the play button and returns to the couch.

The notes of a raw, lascivious rock guitar sound from the speakers, a bass follows and the lead singer grumbles, almost groans "Aha". That's not the kind of music you want to hear when you're aroused and drunk and trying to maintain self-control.

"So…everything is well at the university?" he asks nonchalantly and looks at me, totally neutral now. "What's it you do again?"

I rub my temple and slur, "I'm an accountant. It's boring… but at least I can calculate things on a daily basis." I blink at him. "Man, that sounds absolutely stupid."

Will chuckles, it's a throaty, virile chuckle. "Yeah, it kind of does. But I understand you like numbers a lot? Did you study math here in New York?"

"Yes, I did… at Baruch College." His closeness and the music make it hard for me to concentrate on speaking. Just now the singer tells a girl to "come alive when you're carvin' my wood". I down my beer in one big gulp.

"Did you meet Jasper there?"

"Yes… I mean no… He works for the university, too. I got to know him at work." The voice of the singer distracts me from explaining further… "Plug yourself on the hammer of God now". I start to giggle helplessly and gasp, "Hammer of God?"

Will crooks his eyebrow and grins. "Yeah. It takes confidence to be a real man nowadays."

Confidence… I look at him and stop giggling, then I lean over quickly and wrap both of my arms around him. Throwing the empty bottle away, I kiss him fervidly. He doesn't seem to be surprised. At least I don't think so because he opens his lips immediately. Our tongues collide. I shiver. God, the kiss feels so good. His lips are so soft and warm. I pull at the back of his vest and drive the fingers of my other hand through his hair. But he doesn't touch me, his hands rest on both sides of his thighs on the cushion.

So I lean back a little bit, gasping for air, and look him in the eye, "Touch me. Please!"

"I thought you would never ask," he replies breathlessly with a small smirk, then he leans forward, my arms still around him, puts his bottle down on the floor, grabs the front of my t-shirt and pulls me back into the kiss. Suddenly his hands seem to be all over my body. They ruffle my hair, they tug at my t-shirt, they caress my nipples and pinch them lightly. Meanwhile he licks over my lower lip and sucks it in his mouth. It feels incredible. I moan. My body presses itself against Will's.

I find myself lying underneath him when he ends the kiss. He has straddled my hips, the upper part of his body propped up, and is smiling at me, his lips slightly parted, breathing heavily. His hair is tousled and his lips reddened from the kiss. He looks unbelievably hot. Without averting his eyes, he starts to unbutton his shirt. Slowly, very slowly. I take a deep breath. It's almost more than I can take right now.

"God, hurry up," I mumble, but Will only crooks his eyebrow. For a millisecond I think about ripping his shirt off, but the thought alone embarrasses me. Still, I have to do something, so I grab for my t-shirt to take it off. Only to find that I've already lost it somewhere along the way. I still have my jeans on. I moan helplessly, place a hand on Will's thigh and look at him. He chuckles and opens the last button of his shirt. Wow! He has the most perfect washboard abs. They are firm and geometrical.

"Oh wow," I sigh and touch them with my other hand. I feel goose bumps under my fingers, warm skin and hard muscles. I stroke his stomach and Will smiles at me and licks his lower lip.

"Yes," he whispers and starts to move his hips back and forth. His groin grinds against mine. Oh God! I groan loudly. My fingers grip his thigh harder. He bends forward and nibbles at the curve of my neck.

"You like that?" His breath grazes over my skin.

"Yeah," I mumble hoarsely, "but my jeans are killing me."

He chuckles again and whispers, his deep voice vibrant, "We don't want that, do we?" And with that he reaches down with one hand, unzips my pants and pushes them and my boxers over my hips while I lift them. I breathe a sigh of pure relief, lay one arm around him and writhe myself out of my jeans.

Obviously Will doesn't want to waste any more time, because he grabs my cock without further ado and starts to stroke it, firmly and smoothly. I gasp and when he licks over my collarbone, my body arches up off the couch. Every nerve in my body tingles.

"I'm not gonna last long," I feel obliged to tell him because anything else would be unfair.

"Well then…", he murmurs, sits up a little bit and pulls a condom out of the pocket of his black pants, "Put it on me." He opens his pants and slides them over his hips.

Being very drunk and very aroused and therefore clumsy at the moment, it takes me some time to open the packaging. Will makes the task even more difficult because he continues to stroke my cock, lightly now, but still... I moan breathlessly. He grins at me as I finally manage to open the damn thing.

"Careful now," he whispers as I'm trying to direct the condom to its purpose.

"Sure. Don't worry," I reply with parted lips and look down so I can roll the condom over his fully erect cock. Oops.

He flinches, lets go of me and starts cursing, "Ouch! Bloody hell! You pinched me!"

I finish the task, lift my head and kiss his muscular chest, giggling quietly because I can't contain myself. "Sorry… I'm so sorry! Does it hurt?"

"A little bit," he mumbles and scowls at me.

I nibble on one of his nipples, wrap one leg around him and whisper, "Can I make it up to you by telling you to do me?"

His face brightens up and he murmurs, "Guess so." He lifts my chin with one finger and kisses me again, a little bit roughly but slowly at the same time. Our bodies grind against each other and we shiver simultaneously, groan in each other's mouths. Will ends the kiss eventually and looks at me, his steel blue eyes dark and full of lust. He sticks two fingers in his mouth and sucks on them for a moment, which looks very, very sexy. Then he reaches down and I feel his wet fingers touch me between the buttocks. That alone kicks me almost off the edge and I grit my teeth and gasp. Will seems to sense that it would be better to hurry up if we BOTH want to reach satisfaction. He clasps one arm around the leg I've wrapped around him, shifts his hip and when the angle is just right, he looks me deep in the eye, smiles and enters me bit by bit. I squirm underneath him, groaning, and claw my fingers in his sinewy shoulders. It always hurts a little, but it's a good hurt. He bends down, kisses my neck and starts to move, slowly first, but constantly picking up speed.

"Yes," I gasp and wrap my other leg around him, too. My whole body is tingling with warmth and I have kind of a head rush. Will fills me completely and the second he reaches down between our bodies to touch my cock, I'm done. I come, hard and heavy. I hear his low chuckle and feel him moving inside me. I moan, I gasp, I dig my fingers into the flesh of his shoulders… and then he… and then I…

…think I passed out. I wake up on the couch, wrapped up in the oriental blanket. Before I even start to think my head makes itself felt. Yep, seems to my friend, the hangover. I blink dully and Will's face appears in front of my eyes. I flinch. He chuckles.

"Morning, pumpkin. I'm not sure but I think you have to go to work. Coffee?"

"Yes, please," I croak and try to sit up. Ouch, ouch. It feels like somebody is striking a bell inside my skull. As the blanket slides down, I discover that I'm still naked, but frankly, I don't give a damn. My head hurts too much to be embarrassed or overly reflective.

Will sits down next to me and passes me a mug. I look at him. His hair is damp and he's wearing black jeans and a black t-shirt. Well, at least one of us looks vital and well-rested. Unfortunately it's not me.

He returns my look, sips at his coffee and asks, his tone all serious, "Are you going to talk to Jasper today?"

I get mouthful of coffee and think about it for a moment. "No," I answer finally, "I need to think about it. Can I burrow some clothes?" He nods and we sit in silence 'til it's time to leave for work. It's a comfortable silence. I think I'll call Will sometime.


	9. December the 12th

I'm sorry that it took me so long to update. One reason was that I was very busy. The other reason was that there was a definite lack of inspiration and ideas in my head. But since that is now over, I hope you'll still read my story.

And as always: Thank you so very much, Kristen!

**December the 12****th**

_Jasper's point of view_

I'm starting to worry. Edward didn't come home yesterday or the day before. He didn't answer his phone when I tried to call him yesterday evening and he didn't respond to my text message. That's the reason I can't wait to get home from work now. I want to know if he's back home. I even chose to grab a taxi though it's damn expensive.

I had to work late today, so it's already dark outside. At least the sky is. The city isn't. It's flickering with the lights of Christmas trees and cars. Yeah, yeah, the city that never sleeps. Sometimes I think we two are much alike.

The cab smells of garlic and onions and I feel guilty. The guilt came yesterday morning after the joy about Laurence's confession of love had disappeared. No, it hasn't disappeared completely, but decreased a bit. A lot actually. I stare out of the car window and watch the city breathing without paying attention. Normally the bustle of New York City calms me down. All the sensations soothe the hysterical activity that makes my brain buzz from time to time. Looks like the city fails me now. Then the taxi turns from 5th Avenue onto 65th Street Transverse Road and all I can see are the trees and bushes of Central Park. No more distraction.

I'm not so sure anymore if Laurence is really going to leave his wife. He has said it before, he has promised, but he has never done it. Earlier he called to tell me that he had no time to meet me today because he had to do Christmas shopping with his wife. I asked him – like a whiny idiot – why he had to do Christmas shopping with a woman he was about to leave. He said that he couldn't possibly leave her before Christmas. That this would be devastating for his kids. Maybe, I replied, and finally agreed because I really don't want to ruin my chance of having a real relationship with him. But my only thought was that perhaps it was even more devastating for his wife and the kids to spend Christmas with a cheater, even if they didn't know.

Lord, will he really leave his wife after Christmas? I rub my temple. No, this time it must be true. He said he loved me. He has never said that before. So it must be true, right? I pull at a strand of my hair. I can't think about that now. I just can't. The thought makes me feel sick.

Edward, right, Edward. I feel guilty. I'm a stupid fuck. I never even told him on Tuesday that I wouldn't come to the movies. He must hate me right now… and he should. I'm an asshole, an idiot, a moron. I press my forehead against the window.

"Hey you," the taxi driver says and pulls me out of my thoughts, "we're here. It's ten bucks." I look at him and realize that he's watching me like he suspects that I'm gonna throw up into his cab any minute. Obviously I get the prize for best deviant behavior again. It's the story of my life. I look at the driver for one more second, maybe two. He shifts in his seat, slightly nervous, "Well?" I pass him the money, note the worried look he casts at my scabbed knuckles and get out.

It's starting to snow again. I take a deep breath, close my eyes and lift my head. The flakes are falling softly onto my face. I like snow, because there is none in Shreveport. Don't give me that shit about snow looking like coke. It doesn't. Snow is a detail that doesn't exist where I come from and any detail that helps me remember that I'm not in good ol' Shreveport anymore is a good detail. Snow turns everything into something beautiful and calm by covering it – boring and ugly buildings, grey factories, sometimes even horrible memories. Besides, snow is playful… just like me from time to time.

I look up and all of the calm I've just scraped together goes bye-bye when I see the light on in our living room. Edward… I drag my keys impatiently out of the pocket of my navy coat, ram the key into the lock and push the entrance door open. Maybe it would be a good idea to think about what I'm going to say to Edward. Ah… fuck it. I climb the stairs, taking two steps at once and manage to open the door to our apartment in less than two seconds. My breath catches in my throat as I look into our living room and not just because I ran up the stairs.

Edward is standing in front of the walnut cheval mirror, examining himself, dressed in a black suit. And by God, he's an epiphany. He's wearing a slim suit with a peaked lapel and matching black tuxedo pants. The whole ensemble is made out of finespun wool – guess I'm kind of a vintage fashion victim.

He turns toward me and says, "Hey, Jasper." I answer "Hey" and stare at him, not noticing the little frown in his eyes.

The suit fits so perfectly that Edward couldn't hide anything if he actually had something to hide. The sight is fantastic. All the different shapes and contours of his body are ideally accentuated. He looks like a movie star of the 50s. A red tie is hanging loosely around his neck and his bare feet pose a great contrast to the vintage black hat that sits slopingly on his tousled bronze hair. It's both an under- and an overstatement at once. Like I said: Epiphany.

While I'm still staring, Edward clears his throat bashfully and asks, "What do you think of the suit?"

"It looks fantastic! You look fantastic!"

He smiles, blushing slightly, and blinks, "Thanks." He's by far the most self-conscious man I know. As I watch his hands brushing pointlessly over his pants, I realize that my constant staring is making him nervous, so I turn around, take off my coat and hang it up onto the walnut hall tree Edward bought together with the cheval mirror. "Did you buy the suit for a special…" I don't finish my question because I remember again why he must have bought it. "You bought it for your sister's wedding, right?" I face him again and grin broadly, "You'll surely steal Mary's thunder. Guess you won't go home alone that night."

Damn my big mouth. One look in his eyes tells me that I should remember to think first and speak later. I suck at that. He looks hurt and sad. But if you expect him to give a snippy or sarcastic remark, you're damn wrong, because he only looks back into the mirror, takes the hat off and murmurs, "Maybe." I wish I could act half as dignified and calmly as him.

"Listen," I say, "I know I stood you up and I know you hate me right now, but..."

Edward interrupts me, "No, no." He shakes his head vehemently and turns around. "No, I don't hate you. Really, I don't." He looks me in the eye, the expression in his face so serious that I actually think he might be telling the truth. Then he looks down to his bare feet and adds, "However, I would like to know why you didn't show up."

There's no way to say this nicely and I wouldn't dare lie to him, so I just answer quietly, "I met up with another guy. I'm sorry." He's as discrete as I pictured him to be and doesn't ask who I met, but just nods while still examining his feet. I wish he was mad at me. Why does he have to be so fucking good? I feel like a scumbag in his presence. I go over to the window, pulling my cigarettes out of the pocket of my pants, and light one. "You deserve much better than me, ya know? I'm an unreliable fuck, that's what I am." I open the window and blow the smoke out of my nose into the cold New York air.

"Unreliable: Yes. Fuck: No." I can hear the noise of bare feet moving on parquet, then the low creak of leather that tells me he sat down on the Chesterfield.

He falls silent and I stare out of the window. Cars are creeping down the road, their owners in a desperate search for a parking lot. Even though Edward hasn't asked, his goodness and the little bit of good manners I have in me leave me no option than to tell him at least part of the truth.

"I don't want to make excuses, but it's complicated."

"You really don't have to tell me."

"I know, but I want to. The man is engaged in another relationship. That's why he doesn't want anybody to know that he sees me. It's an undercover thing." I have to snicker 'cause that sounds so damn stupid.

"But he wants to be with you?" Edward asks softly.

I shrug. "He wants to be with me. At least as well, that's for sure. Since we've started seeing each other, he said he would leave his partner, but he hasn't. So I told him to fuck off." I flip ash off the tip of my cigarette. "Then he said he loved me…"

"I see. And… do you believe him?"

"I want to. And to me he seemed honest. So maybe he's really in love with me." I give a small snort. "On the other hand the ability to evaluate people hasn't proven to be my outstanding character trait." I take another drag and blow the smoke out of my nose while I hear him approach me from behind. He pats my shoulder, a little bit awkwardly, and mumbles in a very low voice, "I can't think of one reason why he shouldn't be."

Lord, there is a whole world in his words. I feel the urge to touch him. But before I can give in to this urge, he lets go off my shoulder and asks, trying to sound cheerful, "Are you in the mood for snooker, roomy?"

I decide to go with his attempt to lighten the mood. "I'm in the mood for tearing you apart, roomy, that's for sure. You know that a little small-town boy like yourself couldn't possibly win a game of snooker against an experienced urban gentleman like myself. Do you really want to add another disastrous defeat to your list?"

He grins. "I'll prove the statistics wrong this time. You'll see."

_Edward's point of view_

I changed my clothes – Mary would kill me if I ruined the suit – and we took a taxi to the Space Billiard Café at Koreatown. It's just around the corner of the Empire State Building and I caught a glimpse of it as our taxi turned onto West 32nd street. Aside from my loathing of cold, I really have to say that snow adds considerable beauty to everything. The huge building looked more beautiful and unearthly than ever, its art deco arcs framed white against the dark façade. Jasper seemed to think so, too, because he stared out of the window of the car, examining the snow-powdered skyscraper without blinking, a definite glow in his green eyes. He didn't even noticed how intensely I watched him and certainly not the pathetic, longing look in my eyes – for which I will be forever thankful. See, my drunken escapade may have satisfied my more, well, earthly desires, but I still feel a considerable affection for my unreliable southern roommate. God, who am I kidding? We might as well call a spade a spade: I am still in love with Jasper. And we're not talking about the nice kind of love right now. It ranks more in the group of desperate, excruciating emotions. I feel like moping about it the whole damn day.

But I'm not angry at Jasper anymore. I've seen a vulnerable part of him on our first date. I've seen the shadow in his eyes when he told me about the best moment of his life. I've thought about that yesterday and I've come to the conclusion that his tendency to hurt himself might not be unintentional and that it is somehow related to his past. If I'm taking these thoughts into account, his state of mind appears to be a rather fragile thing – self-harm is a serious issue. How could I be mad at the fact that he's in love with somebody else, if that's the case? No, I should be happy for him and hope that Bennett won't screw things up with him. And after Jasper kind of apologized to me for standing me up, the last bit of anger I felt in me has vanished into thin air. Which just leaves me with the desperate, excruciating feeling of loving someone who doesn't love me back. Well, great…

I'm just grateful that Will doesn't make a big deal of our one-night stand. My life is complicated enough as it is (which I've probably made perfectly clear by rambling about it). When I returned the borrowed clothes yesterday, we shared a quick cup of coffee – and I really just mean a cup of coffee – and he told me about the "bloody awesome" concert of "The Prodigy" – a band I had never heard of – that he went to last week. And that was it. He didn't mention neither the sex or Jasper. I think he's more sensitive than his taste of music suggests.

Joey, the 50-year old owner of the Space Billiard Café, is leaning against the front of the wooden bar, his elbows resting on the polished surface, as we enter the room. His brown eyes are slightly blank and he's idly scratching the stubble on his chin. The café is not very busy during the week.

"Hey Joey!" I nod in his direction. "What's up?"

"Not much. Workdays are Gods way to tell bar owners that it's a sin to serve booze to people." He crosses himself and looks at the ceiling. "No offense." He goes to the other side of the bar. "What can I do for you two?"

"We would like a snooker table and I'll have a ginger ale." I think it is best to stay away from alcohol tonight. "And I would like a Heineken," Jasper adds. Joey nods, picks up a box that contains the snooker balls from below the bar and hands it over to me. "You have free choice." He gestures in the direction of the vacant snooker tables.

Snooker is the perfect game for mathematicians. It combines the laws of physics with foresighted thinking, tactics and basic mathematics. It's a quiet, almost meditative sport, which requires a lot of concentration, but also allows you room for a cold beer (or ginger ale) and a chat with your opponent. It is one of the things both Jasper and I like to do, so we have played a few games since we've moved in together. I've only managed to beat him once. He has a brilliant intuition when it comes to choosing the right tactic. As always I tend to think too much.

The Space Billiard Café is neither spacious nor fancy. It's a rather ordinary billiard bar with light yellow walls, meaningless prints and a grey carpet. But I like to come here because of Joey. He's the Catholic, compassionate, slightly overweight heart of the business. Whenever he feels that you need someone to talk to, he'll listen and give you advice – with a thick Italian accent that shows where he comes from.

We choose a table and while Jasper arranges the balls on the green baize-covered surface, Joey comes over with our drinks. He places them on the edge of the table and gives me a fatherly smile. "Better luck this time, sonny." He has a memory like an elephant when it comes to who won what and when. "Thanks, Joey." I smile and sip at my ginger ale.

Jasper and I pick out cues from the rack at the wall and he asks, "Is it okay with you if I break?" I nod and take a small bow, "After you." He places the white cue ball on the line between the brown and the yellow ball that is situated at one end of the table (the baulk end), takes a short look at the red balls that are arranged in a triangle at the other end and strikes the cue ball with a firm and smooth movement. One red ball peels away from the other 14, while the cue ball bounces off the cushion, returns to the baulk end and comes to a halt behind the green ball. A great shot! The position of the cue ball provides me no opportunity to sink a red ball, it is difficult to even reach one in a direct way. I check the situation on the table and try to decide which red ball I want to and can hit, then I bend over and position my cue, focusing on my chosen target.

"You didn't come home." Jasper says suddenly before I can execute my strike. The smooth singsong tone of his voice doesn't sound accusing, but matter-of-factly.

My concentration breaks. I lift my gaze and look at him. The serious, almost insecure expression in his green eyes surprises me. I'm not sure why he said that, what he wants me to answer. That makes me a little tense. I straighten my back almost involuntarily and reply in that harsh tone I always and never successfully try to suppress, "I didn't want to see you." Wow, that sounded rude. My fist encloses the cue in my hand harder.

"I see." He falls silent and brushes a strand of hair behind his ear, staring at the balls with glassy eyes. I wait for a moment to see if he wants to say something else, but he seems to have no intention to do so. So I position myself again and strike. God, what a terrible shot. I hit the red ball too hard and in the wrong angle. The cue ball lost all its momentum in the contact and stopped. One of the red balls rolled exactly in front of one of the corner pockets. It's completely impossible to not sink it. I gnash my teeth and take a step back.

He looks at the table, sips at his beer and murmurs, while he leans forward, "I was worried." He sinks the red ball – of course – and gains a good position to continue with the black one.

I really don't know what to make of this "conversation", but I can't help it – I feel offended. Does he want me to apologize because I didn't call? Well, he was the one who didn't call and stood me up. I realize that maybe I'm still a bit angry about that.

"Do you want me to apologize? Well, I'm sorry that you were worried, but I didn't want to talk to you either. I was hurt and pissed." Terrific, that sounded rude _and_ bitchy.

Meanwhile, Jasper sinks the black ball, put it back on its spot and is now aiming for the next red ball – apparently he's not distracted by this conversation. But then he looks up, his eyebrows lifted, obviously surprised, and asks, "You were pissed? Really?"

"Of course!" I reply angrily. "What did you think?"

"Dunno. Ya seemed so calm 'bout it. Like a saint or somethin'."

"Like a saint? Are you kidding me? The saint of the bad movie clichés maybe. I was so frustrated and angry that I drank myself into oblivion and told the barkeeper about my problems. And then I complained about your stupid behavior to my sister – for what felt like the whole damn day." Despite my anger I don't mention Will's name. Strange…

Suddenly, he starts to laugh, loud and melodic. I stare at him perplexedly, while he leans forward, holding on to the frame of the table with one hand. "Lord," he gasps, "I'm so sorry, really sorry… it's just… that's the most pointless argument we've ever had…" A giggling laughter prevents him from continuing.

I don't know why exactly, but my anger disappears. First my lips form into a broad grin, then I start to laugh, too. I still have no idea why he started the strange conversation, but as I'm watching him, doubled over, laughing openly like a child, it doesn't matter.

We play two games of snooker that evening – he wins both of them.


	10. December the 14th

Hello everyone!

I'm really touched that you're happy that I'm back. That calls for another chapter. Here it is. Please review!

And Kristen, my Kristen… thank you oh so much!

**December the 14****th**

_Edward's point of view_

Saturday starts with the ringing of my cell phone. I open my eyes and blink at my alarm clock: 10:25. I roll around in my bed, a little stiffly, and grab for the phone that lies on my nightstand. The number on the display looks slightly familiar but I'm not sure to whom it belongs. I suppress a yawn, clear my throat and push the green button. "Hello?"

"Hello pumpkin." It's Will. "Wanna go to a concert tonight?"

"What?" I don't really understand what he says since I'm still half-asleep, but it's nice to hear his voice again.

"Do you – Edward – want to go to a concert tonight – that would be the night of the 14th of December – with me – William Pratt?" His tone is more than a bit mocking.

I sit up a little bit, stuff the pillow behind my back and grin. "I need more details for a definite statement."

He sighs. "Gosh, you're complicated. Well then…" I can hear the ripple of water in the background. "I just happen to know the bouncer of the Bowery Ballroom and he gave me two tickets for the "Panic at the Disco"- show tonight at 8. And before you ask who "Panic at the Disco" is, you music illiterate: It is a rock band. Their music is a tad too sugarcoated and sleek, but they're okay and the concert's for free."

Finally, a band I know. "I know who they are and I'm not a music illiterate. I just prefer listening to real music, rather than letting my ears be ruined by archaic grunting."

He snorts. "How very posh of you. Snob! Well, now that you have the details and we've established that you even know the band, what do you say?"

I think about it for a second. It sounds like fun and I could use a little distraction. There's still the thing with Jasper, and Mary almost had a nervous breakdown yesterday when I visited her. The wedding is next Friday and she thinks that everything will go wrong and there is still so much to do and maybe she should have chosen different flowers and her in-laws are making her nuts and… and… It took me two hours to calm her down and convince her that everything will be fine. "I would really like to go with you."

"Good. Doors open at 7. Should I pick you up or should we meet there?" I can hear more rippling of water.

"We can meet there at 7. What are you doing in the background?"

"Bathing…" he purrs.

"Uh, baby." I laugh, but I have to admit that the image of him bathing is quite appealing.

"Right now I'm cleaning my feet with a soapy sponge. Uh-oh, I wish you could see how shiny and new my toes look. Since you have this strange bath fetish, this must really turn you on, doesn't it?"

I have to laugh harder. "I don't have a strange bath fetish!"

"Oh shut up! Of course you have." He imitates my drunken slur; "I love bath tubs. They are filled with hot water."

"I was drunk!" I try to sound outraged, but it doesn't work very well.

"Pha! In vino veritas, my friend. See you tonight at 7."

"See you." I hang up.

This is a nice way to start the day. I stand up and stretch, then I go over to the window and pull back the curtains. The sky is grey and frost patterns cover the window pane. Both bed rooms point to the back yard and the back yards of New York don't belong to the many beautiful spots in the city. They are grey, brown at the most, often without any plants and harbor a large sum of garbage containers. Our back yard is no exception, so I look out only briefly. I like my room better than the view.

I haven't told you about my room, have I? Okay then…

It's 182.98 square feet, formed like an L and I've painted in an ivory color. The flea markets of New York are heaven for retro freaks like me and I was lucky and got a 50s bed frame and a matching nightstand at Annex Antique Fair & Flea Market in Chelsea. The bed is made of nut-brown wood and has a head board that is two feet high, but the most important thing is that it has no foot board. I'm 6′1′′ and I hate it when my feet bump against the board when I turn around in the night. Then there is a big wooden bookshelf, the mahogany desk in front of the two windows and an ordinary white closet which doesn't go with the rest of the furniture because 'til now I haven't had enough money to buy another one. Regarding decoration I'm a minimalist. The only real piece of decoration in my room is a framed poster of James Dean above my bed. It's a monochromatic shot by Roy Schatt and my favorite picture of James. He's looking sideways, wearing a simple black pullover, and has dark circles around his eyes, which make him appear tired and weary. He looks sad. I like this picture because it transports all these emotions effortlessly.

I go over to the stereo that sits on the bookshelf and turn on the radio. It's tuned in on a New York City radio station that plays mostly music of the 50s, 60s and 70s – and at the moment "Brown Eyed Girl" by Van Morrison. A nice, fun, non-archaic song. Humming along with the tune, I go over to my closet to choose my clothes for the day. I'm in the mood for jeans and t-shirt, but considering the bad weather conditions outside I add a grey hoodie to the outfit. I clamp the clothes under my arm, also pick a fresh pair of boxers from the bottom drawer of my closet and then I pause for a moment to sing. "Do you remember when we used to sing/ Sha la la la la la la la la la la te da." Yeah I know, not the most complex lyrics of all time, but right now, it's nice to partake in something so simple. I dance around a little, probably looking completely stupid dressed only in blue boxer shorts and with a bunch of clothes under my arm, but at the moment I don't care – even if the neighbors from the other side of the back yard can see me.

Finally I leave my room to take a shower. Jasper is nowhere to be seen and I can't hear anything from his room. Seems like I can take my time in the bath. I take a long shower, shave (I use a straight razor which my grandpa gave to me) and get my hair under control.

When I return to the living room, Jasper is sitting on the window sill, looking outside, smoking a cigarette. When I look at him today, the pain of my longing is missing and I am just happy to see him. Guess my mood is just too good. He turns to me, holding the cigarette out of the open window – even the cold in the room fails to bother me –, and smiles his incredible smile, his grass-green eyes sparkling.

"Mornin', Edward. I've made pancakes." He nods towards the laid table and a plate of steaming pancakes.

"Mr. Whitlock, I'm shocked. Have you gone all domestic?" Cooking isn't really his forte, I think he doesn't even like to do it. I go over to the table and sit down.

He puts his cigarette out, closes the window and grins. "Maybe a little. I had to actually, because you were in the shower and I couldn't ask you to make some." He winks at me, picks up two pancakes with a fork and puts them on my plate. "How's your sister?"

"Thanks for the pancakes." I fill my cup with coffee. "Mary's a nervous wreck. She thinks that the wedding will be a disaster, that everything that could go wrong, will go wrong." I make a face and sip at my coffee. "Normally she's totally calm and composed, but now she's agitated and every time I see her she looks like she's about to cry. I really don't understand why anyone would put themselves through this stress for one damn day. Yesterday, I almost told her to grab Simon, fly to Vegas and have a drive-through wedding. No stress, no annoying relatives and 57°. Of course she would have bitten my head off if I had said that." I take a bite of pancake.

He grins, showing all his teeth. "Vegas? Drive-through wedding? Marriage is a serious and romantic occasion to most people. 'Til death do us part, you know? Ya certainly don't get points for empathy."

I swallow the piece of pancake, which tastes great by the way – I think he has put cinnamon and some other more exotic spices in the batter. "I too think it's a serious occasion, but I don't think it does the occasion any justice to make such a big fuss about it. I don't want to sound cheesy, but it should be all about the love, and there is just too much money and too many expectations involved."

Jasper pulls one of his bare feet on the seat and wraps one arm around his leg. "Yeah, I agree, maybe the big hoopla poses too much of a distraction, but Vegas? Come on! And ya can't tell me that you're not looking a bit forward to the wedding."

I grin. "Okay, you win!" I take another bite. He's right, I'm a little bit excited about the wedding. At least about the part where Mary and Simon vow to love each other as long as they live. It's almost embarrassing how sentimental and emotional I can be. But not exactly surprising considering my current misery. By now I think my problem is that I can only balance the logical, mathematical, reserved side and the affective, romantic side of my personality by using booze. I hit myself over the head internally for that. Even though this conclusion is not really a pleasant one, I refuse to let my great mood be ruined by it. So I concentrate my focus on Jasper again – far away from my urge to ponder.

He spears a piece pf pancake with his fork. "So, where are they getting married?"

"Since they're both as atheistic as I am, they're having a civil marriage ceremony which will be held by a retired judge Mary became friends with at law school. Both the ceremony and the reception will be at the Central Park Boathouse."

"That sounds nice. They can take some great pictures at the Lake."

"If the weather cooperates," I add with feigned grimness.

He chuckles. "Of course. Let's just hope that the mean snow and cold won't kill each and every one of ya." He fishes for another piece of pancake with his fork, his chin resting on his erect knee. "When are your mom and dad coming?"

"On Wednesday. They stay 'til Saturday at my sister's."

He nods and we fall silent for a while, drinking coffee and eating pancakes. A small beam of sunlight manages to pierce through the clouds and lights our living room for one moment. The snow in the treetops in front of our windows starts to sparkle. I'm watching the spectacle for a moment, then I look at Jasper and notice the pensive expression on his face. He's staring down at his plate and is shuffling the remaining pieces of pancake absentmindedly around with his fork.

"Ya like the pancakes?" he asks out of the blue.

I'm not sure why, but it feels like he has a more serious reason for asking this question than you would expect. So I think that a simple answer like "yes" won't do. "They're delicious. I like all the spices you've put in the batter, especially the cinnamon."

"It's my mom's recipe," he says slowly without looking at me.

It's the first time ever he mentions his mom and I want him to go on talking about her – curiosity is just a minor reason why I want him to. But I'm afraid he won't continue if I push him, so I just nod.

"She died when I was ten." He sounds forlorn and determined at the same time.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly. "How did she die?"

Finally he looks at me, but his grass-green eyes aren't sparkling at the moment. "Breast cancer." He unfolds his body, stands up and asks, pointing at the table, "Are ya finished eating?" I nod again and he starts clearing the table. Seems like Jasper's moment of self-disclose is over. I'm not sure where it came from, but I'm happy that he opened up a little bit to me.

…

I've taken the subway to go to the Bowery Ballroom. I could have used my bike, but I don't think there will be an opportunity to secure it inside a building. Furthermore it's likely that I want to unite the two sides of my personality again tonight and that means that I won't be able to ride my bike home safely. I get off the subway at Grand Street and saunter down Chrystie Street, past shops with both English and Chinese signs, heading for Delancey Street. The weather is okay. It's still damn cold, but at least it's not snowing.

I raise my eyebrows in surprise when I turn onto Delancey Street. There is a huge crowd of people in front of the venue – and apparently "Panic at the Disco" has a lot of female fans. I cross the street and approach the club, examining the crowd with some interest. The people wear rather unusual, fancy, kind of gothic looking clothes, what goes with the style and music of the band I guess – I've never seen them live or listened that closely to their music. Finally I spot Will and I have to grin. He's leaning against a shop window of an adjacent aquarium store, dressed completely in black, and obviously he tries to distance himself from the other fans by looking like a grumpy, yet cool undertaker.

I go over to him. "Hey! So… you like to listen to girly music?"

His steel blue eyes pierce me and he growls, "Their music is not that girly. It's all because of that eye candy of a lead singer."

I knit a brow. "Aha…"

"Shut up, you snobby asshole." He pushes himself off the wall and lingers through the crowd over to the entrance. "You coming or what?"

I chuckle and follow him.

We make it to the main room, buy two Heineken at the bar and try to get as close to the stage as possible. There is a simple, 100 percent functioning rule if you want to stand in the first row: Don't approach the stage from the front, just try the sides. Most people seem to forget that there is an alternative to the center directly in front of the stage. Using this knowledge we get a good place in the front row.

Will takes off his black, ankle-length leather coat and puts it unceremoniously on the edge of the stage. "So, have you talked to Jasper?" He speaks louder than usual to drown out the noise around us.

"Yeah," I bend towards him so I don't have to yell, "he apologized and we're back to roommate status. I didn't tell him that I know who he's dating."

He sips at his beer. "And how do you feel about that?"

"Well, it's nice that he apologized." I know I'm dodging a real answer.

He knows that, too. "That doesn't really answer my question." He grins slightly.

I take a big gulp of beer. "I hate it! I'm still in love with him and I think I'm a pussy for not telling him that I know about his affair."

He nods slowly. "I figured that you're properly into him. Well I'm sorry. That sucks." He gestures casually. "But I insist that you're not a pussy. You're just sparing yourself some genuine stress."

I sigh. "Let's talk about something different, okay?"

He shrugs. "Okay."

We both look around for a moment, drinking beer. Nearly all of the female clientele looks very excited and full of expectation. They're giggling, they're squeaking, they're jumping up and down like hyperactive kids. Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating. But not much. And Will seems to have similar thoughts because he starts to laugh when the girl next to us sighs, "Brendon is so cute."

Suddenly he looks at me with a mischievous glint in his steel blue eyes. "I think we should give them something to really squeak about."

I have a suspicion what he's up to, but before I can process my thought, he wraps his arm around my neck and pulls me into a deep kiss. I stumble a little, manage to balance myself again by holding on to his left shoulder and then I return his kiss without really thinking about it. The logical side of my personality is of the opinion that our smooching is not PG. Not only is Will kissing me with all the tongue he has, but he's also grabbing my butt and rubbing his crotch against my hip. But the other side of my personality doesn't give a damn.

I can hear a lot of "ahs" and "ohs" and indeed some squeaking around us. Finally Will releases me and I take a deep breath. Then I grin and mumble, "I felt a little bit like squeaking myself."

He wiggles his eyebrows and throws a portentous glance at my general loin area. "I thought so."

I clear my throat as I'm noticing that everyone around is staring at us and I'm happy that the support act decides to enter the stage in this exact moment.

Will chuckles and turns around nonchalantly to watch the show. I need a moment to calm down. After the moment has passed, I lean forward and shout in Will's ear, "My sister is getting married on Friday. Do you want to accompany me?"

He looks at me briefly and smiles. "Sure."


	11. December the 15th Jasper's perspective

It took me eons to finish this. Sorry, guys! But here it is! Enjoy and please review!

**Notes:** Thank you, Kristen, for revising as quickly as the Road Runner, well, runs.

**December the 15****th**

_Jasper's point of view_

12 a.m. I'm lying on my bed, listening to Cab Calloway. The sounds of the trumpets are vibrating in my ears. The music is loud, very loud, 'cause I know I'm all alone in the apartment. Edward sent me a text message last night that he would stay at a friend's. I don't want him to feel guilty 'bout not telling me where he was last Tuesday, but I guess he does. I know it's mean, but I'm happy that his guilt compels him to inform me when he doesn't come home. I care a lot for him and I don't like picturing him lying dead in the gutter. Makes my skin crawl.

"What's the matter with that cat there? Must be full of reefer." Cab Calloway sure knew how to live. The song makes me want to smoke pot. I turn around onto my stomach and to the foot of my bed (basically it's just a mattress) and fish for a pair of my pants on the parquet. I know it must be somewhere around here. I search the pockets 'til I find the small metal box. Yeah! To my surprise there's still a ready rolled joint in there. I grab a lighter that lies in a pile of clothes on the floor and light the joint. I inhale deeply while I turn around again and sprawl on the mattress. Ah. Warmth spreads out in my breast. I'm really glad that my heavy use of synthetic drugs hasn't made me tolerant to weed. I smoke the joint, puff small circles of smoke in the direction of the ceiling and luxuriate on the mattress like a satisfied cat. Sometimes life can be nice. "Hi-de-hi-de-hi-di-hi!"

I'm already pretty high and quite giggly when I decide to call Edward. I turn down the sound on my old stereo, pick up my cell that is under a stack of magazines on my scuffed nightstand and dial his number. I have it down cold.

He picks up after a few rings. "Hey Jasper." His melodic voice sounds faint and a little tired, so basically like a hangover.

"Hey." I clamp the joint between my teeth and do a hollow back to stretch. "How was the concert?"

"Nice," I hear him take a gulp of something, probably coffee, "they put on a good show, but some of their lyrics are really off. For example, what do you say to this: "No, it's much better to face these kinds of things with a sense of poise and rationality"?" He exclaims the lyrics with a straight graveness. It's hilarious. I burst into laughter and the joint falls from my lips and onto the mattress. I pick it up as quickly as possible, but since I'm still laughing like crazy, it's not that easy and it leaves a burn hole nevertheless. Meanwhile, I've dropped the cell as well and when I press the speaker to my ear again, I can hear him snicker on the other side. I have a hard time catching my breath, but I manage to gasp, "They really want to get their message across, don't they?"

"Yeah, they rhyme with reason!"

His silly joke provokes more hysterical laughter from my side.

"God," he giggles, "are you high?"

"As a kite," I pant.

He sighs dramatically. "I wish I was too. I really could use something against the pain in my head."

"But Edward, drugs are bad. You know that!"

"You just say so to distract me from the horrid fact that you didn't share the joint with me. You selfish bastard!"

"Cab Calloway made me do it!"

"Yeah, of course. Blame the black man. Jasper, you're not only selfish, you're also a racist."

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!"

"Are too!"

"Am not!" I laugh so hard my stomach hurts and I can hear him suppress a snicker.

"Are too!" At this moment another noise sounds on his side of the line. It's music and pretty loud. I need a second to recognize the song since it's not up my alley, but then I know: It's "Lovefool" by The Cardigans. Where the hell is Edward?

"Where the hell are you?" He doesn't answer, but I can hear him covering the mouth piece and talking to somebody else. It's mostly mumbling, but I catch a few snippets of words.

"Turn it off!" Edward.

"But why, sweet Edward?" Some other guy?

"Because it's damn childish, idiot." Edward.

"Yeah, but true. Love me, love me, say that you love me…" Definitely some other guy.

I can hear Edward exclaim some mildly insulting swear words and then the music stops.

"Where the hell are you? What was that?" I can't help but realize that I'm strangely upset.

"Sorry. I'm at a friend's."

"Yeah, I know. But who's this friend?"

There's a small pause. "His name's Will." Not much information and he sounds kinda reluctant.

"Will?"

"Yes… listen, is there something else? I'm meeting up with Mary about her wedding dress so I have to get going." Now there's evasion.

"No, just wanted to talk to you a bit. Greetings to Mary."

"Sure. Bye." He hangs up.

I let my cell drop to the floor, turn around again, drag at my joint and stare at the ceiling. Fuck me: What was that? Who's this Will? Why "Lovefool"? Why doesn't Edward want to talk about it?

I muse about it 'til I finish the joint. I've come up with no answers except one: Since I don't think that Edward has the idiocy to get himself involved in illegal business – which would also explain why he doesn't wanna talk about it – I guess the only answer is that he's fucking this Will. It is in line with his character to not disclose who he's sleeping with, being so discreet and shy and all. I turn 'round on my stomach again and prop up on my elbows, when another thought comes to my mind. Edward isn't really the type of guy for one night stands, so I guess… Oh shit. I guess Will is his goddamn boyfriend. I stand up and start to pace.

Really? His boyfriend? Our last date (the one I fucked up) was supposed to be last Tuesday and five days later he has a boyfriend? Pretty implausible. I mean I'm talking 'bout Edward who's kind of an Anti-Don Juan. He hasn't mentioned even one sexual encounter since we've been living together. Fuck! That makes it all the more likely that Will is not a one night stand. I stop by the window and stare outside. I know I can't come up with an answer as to why, but it fucking bothers me. I exclaim "Fuck!" and smash my fist against the window sill. Goddammit, I'm fucking jealous. I have no reason to be jealous. I have no right to be jealous. And certainly no fucking desire to be jealous. It just complicates everything. "Why can't it be simple? Why do I make FUCKING everything so damn complicated?"

Then my cell rings. I take a deep breath, go over to my bed and pick it up. "Yeah?"

"Jasper?" A female voice which sounds kinda familiar.

"Yes. Who's there?"

"It's me. Claudia."

My mind goes totally blank. I'm too perplexed to answer. I barely notice that my hands start to shake.

"Jasper? You still there?"

Her soft voice brings memories back. I manage to mumble "Yes.".

"I'm in New York. Can we meet?"

"Yes."

"Where would be the most convenient for you?"

I say the first thing that comes to my bewildered mind. "Starbucks 63rd and Broadway."

"Okay. Is 5 pm okay for you?"

"Sure."

"Good. See you then." Her last sentence sounded more like a question.

"Yeah." I hang up, sit down on the mattress and press my hands together to prevent them from shaking. The last thing I need is the presence of the Ghost of Christmas Past.

When I enter Starbucks three hours later, I spot Claudia immediately. She's sitting on a couch near the window, hunched over a map that is lying on the low coffee table. I stamp my feet lightly on the doormat with the Starbucks logo to rid my boots of snow, then I go over to Claudia, trying to ignore the nausea in my stomach.

She doesn't notice me 'til I'm directly in front of the table and say "Hey, Claudia." She raises her head and I'm surprised at how little she's changed since the last time I saw her. God, when was that? Seven years ago? Her round face is still framed by long, plain, thick black hair, her blue eyes still look at me with that familiar expression – an odd mixture of dreaminess and intense alertness – she still wears glasses with a black frame, she's still pale, she still hunches her shoulders a bit. She still reminds me of Bambi. A small part of me is happy to see her again. The part that doesn't try desperately to suppress any memories.

"Hello, Jasper." She smiles at me and the smile is as sweet and honest as I remember it to be.

I try to smile, too, which doesn't work as well as planned, then I take off my coat and place it on the back of the armchair that stands on the other side of the table. "Do ya want somethin' from the counter?"

She tilts her head and I can clearly see that she's thinking about it 'cause of the way she knits her brows, then she says, "Yeah, a piece of lemon pound cake would be nice."

I nod and go over to the counter. I'm so distracted by Claudia's presence that I have a hard time ordering the cake and a simple black coffee in a straight sentence so that the employee can actually figure out what I want.

Finally I go back to the table, place the cake and the coffee onto it and sit down in the armchair. Claudia says "Thanks", picks up the fork and peels off a tiny bit from the piece of cake. This deliberate movement causes an instant flashback in my head. A flashback which brings me back to the countless times we sat in McDonald's, where I watched in fascination while she ate her fries. While I emptied the packet of ketchup onto the packaging of the cheeseburger and dipped the fries into it like everybody else, she opened the packet just a little and squeezed a tiny bit of ketchup on each fry she was about to eat.

While I look at her absent-mindedly, I notice the expectant expression in her blue eyes. Guess I blanked out for a moment.

"Did you say somethin'?"

She nods. "Yeah, I asked how you are."

This question throws me into a dilemma. I don't really want to talk about the fact that I feel like shit right now. I'm a good liar, so though she might still know me well despite the years that have passed, she wouldn't notice if I lied and said "fine". On the other hand I do owe her sincerity (along with my life and the ability to live through a day without any heavy drugs).

"Like shit."

She lowers the fork and just looks at me compassionately with her big eyes, silent.

I sigh quietly. "Love-life issues… and I'm kinda mixed-up 'cause you're here."

She lowers her eyes and murmurs, "I'm sorry that I'm confusing you."

I hesitate for a moment, then I reach out over the table and touch her black-haired head lightly. When she looks up again, I try another smile – I hope it's more convincing this time. "It's not really you that's messing me up, it's my head." I tap a finger against my forehead. "In my head you're a representative of things that have passed and that I damn well don't wanna remember. I know that doesn't do ya any justice, but memory is a bitch. I'm sorry."

She smiles sadly and the sorrowful expression in her eyes gives me a stab of guilt and regret. "It's not fair," her voice is quiet, "you are not fair. It's not fair to tell me something so horrible and acknowledge right afterwards that it's your fault. It makes it nearly impossible to be angry at you." She smiles crookedly.

"Ya were never the one to be mad at me in the first place." I lower my hand and my lips form a smile of their own. I feel myself relax a bit.

"That's true." She picks up another bite of cake, still looking at me. "Even when you left without a word or a note. I guess I got it. I was just happy that you sent me a letter so I knew that you were okay."

I sip at my coffee and turn my head so I can look outside. "I'm sorry that I waited a year before I did."

She nods and we sit in silence for a moment. We didn't phone once in the past seven years, but there were letters. I didn't write her many at all, ten tops, but she sent me tons of them. So I know a lot 'bout what she did in the last years.

I turn my head again to look at Claudia. "Do ya still like your job?" She works as a Case Manager for people with mental retardation and developmental disabilities.

"Very much," her eyes start to shine. "To use an overused term: It's very fulfilling."

"I can imagine that. And Anthony treats ya well? I don't have to travel over to Shreveport to kick his ass?"

She grins. "Yeah, he treats me well. He behaves like a prince. So hold your horses!" She makes a small pause and her grin subsides, then she puts the fork down and looks at me, all serious and kinda tense. "But you should come to Shreveport nevertheless."

My stomach ties up in knots and the nausea returns. I knew she had a good reason to come here and I knew that I wouldn't wanna hear it. I just look at her.

"Your dad had a stroke. He's in the hospital." She hesitates for a moment, then she leans forward. "I don't think he has much time left." Her soft voice shakes a bit.

I run my hands through my hair. I feel so lost right now. "When… when did it happen?"

"Last week. He collapsed in a grocery store." Claudia stands up, comes around the table, sits down on my armrest and places a hand gently on my shoulder.

I stare into space. My mind feels like a black hole. "What's his condition?"

Her hand stays on my shoulder and her voice is still very quiet and soft. "It's bad. His left side is paralyzed and he has problems speaking and breathing."

I run my fingers trough my hair again and fix my eyes on my cup of coffee. "And you suggest that I oughta see 'im?"

She squeezes my shoulder 'til I look up and meet her eyes. Her voice sounds steady now, decisive, "Yes. You have unresolved business with him and soon it will be too late to come clean."

My eyes return to the cup and my fingers run through my hair a third time. Jesus fucking Christ, I don't wanna see the old fucker. Never again. But if he dies? I'll be happy, won't I? Happy that he's gone forever? I can't talk to him. Can I?

"Jasper," I blink as I hear her voice, "Jasper, I know that you're suffering. That's because you just left without talking to him about the way he treated you. You never stood up to him. But I know you want to. You're a fighter. You want to tell him about…"

I feel somethin' snap in the back of my head and I jump up, ramming Claudia almost to the floor. "I… gotta go." I grab my coat and hurry for the door. When my foot hits the stone of the sidewalk, I start to run.


	12. December the 15th  Edward's perspective

Hello guys!

I love my job, but it really keeps me busy. So I can't update as often as I would like to. But here is the new chapter. Enjoy and cookies if you review!

**Thanks:** go out to Kristen, my wonderful beta, who spent her night revising my mistakes. Hug, hug, and another hug!

**December the 15****th**** - Edward's perspective**

As soon as I've ended the call with Jasper, I turn around to face Will. He's leaning against one of the posters of his bed, wearing only black pajama pants, looking annoyingly smug.

"What the hell was that?" I raise my hands inquiringly.

He does the whole nonchalant-routine by looking down and examining his fingernails with an air of self-involved innocence. "Just playing a little tune." He gestures laxly and without looking in the direction of the stereo.

I groan impatiently. "Don't be childish! You know what I mean."

He's still contemplating his damn fingernails. "I thought it would only be fair to give Jasper a heads-up about your current emotional state. Actually I wanted to do you a favor, mate. So don't get your knickers in a twist."

I lift my arms in desperation. "You consider this a favor?"

Fortunately he finally cuts out his English dandy demeanor and lifts his eyes to look at me. He sighs. "'Course I do. You're not able to tell him that you love him. Instead of taking into account that doing that might cause him to reconsider his relationship with the grandpa, you beat about the bush and flirt with him over the phone. I couldn't bear to witness it any longer. And since you don't have the balls…" He shrugs his shoulders. A gesture so innocent and nonchalant that I am almost not offended. Almost.

"That is your great explanation? That I don't have the balls to tell him?" My voice is vibrating with anger.

To his credit he actually seems to feel a little guilty, judging by the slightly sheepish look on his face. "No. Look, I _assume_ that you have another reason. But you haven't told me a whole lot about the situation and you have to admit that cowardice seems to be a likely explanation. I mean we're not talking about a little crush here, are we? We're talking big business and if you told him that you love him, you would expose yourself completely. Because of his present commitment, hurt and suffering could ensue."

I sit down on the sofa and grab the mug with my coffee. "Well, smart-ass, that's not the reason," I scowl.

Will comes over, sauntering – by my observation his usual way of moving. He sits down on the edge of the black coffee table in front of the sofa and looks at me, not really remorsefully, but at least decently non-complacently. "Then tell me. Maybe I could be of some assistance and I'm deadly curious." He rubs his chin and adds after a small pause, "I'm sorry about the whole ball part."

My anger and, okay, my headache forbid me to let him calm me down that easily. I grumble, while staring darkly into my cup, "That was absolutely uncalled for."

He grips my chin and forces me gently to lift my head, so I have to look at him. His steel blue eyes are mischievous and impatient. "I'll blow you for that later. Can we please move on, peaches?"

Again, his bluntness catches me off guard. I blink and make a silly sound like "err".

He laughs and lets go off my chin. "Gosh, you're such an innocent little puppy."

I clear my throat and comment laconically, "You wouldn't be so sexually offensive, if you lived in a town with only 3,274 other people. As quickly as this kind of behavior would make the rounds, there would probably be a mass in the local church just for you."

"I would like that." He grins and gazes deliberately into the distance, looking like he's having a vision. "Yes, I can almost see it. The priest is preaching gravely about sin and quotes Colossians 3:5-6: "Put to death, therefore, whatever belongs to your earthly nature: sexual immorality, impurity, lust, evil desires and greed, which is idolatry. Because of these, the wrath of God is coming." The crowd shudders in disgust. The altar server fights tears. The mob grabs their pitchforks after church to finish me off."

I pat his shoulders. "Yeah," I drawl," sure. You know that "The Crucible" is set in 1692, don't you?"

He waves my objection aside with a gesture of his hand. "I will die bloodied and beaten. A martyr for blow jobs and promiscuous boinking."

I just sip at my coffee.

He focuses his eyes back on me and winks lasciviously like a bombshell from the 30s.

I lift an eyebrow. "Will, that doesn't look sexy, just incredibly swishy."

"Fuck you." He grins. "So will you tell me what the problem with Jasper is already?"

I deliberate the matter for a moment and decide that it would definitely be indiscreet to tell Will about the issues I presume Jasper has. On the other hand, it would be a relief to talk to somebody about it. Especially Will. Indeed, he could be of some assistance. At least 80 percent (give or take 5 percent because I was drunk while some of his comments) of what he said about the matter so far was illuminating or perceptive. I could really use another perspecti…

My train of thought is interrupted by Will clearing his throat. It irritates me enough to focus my attention and my eyes on him and see that he is looking at me with knitted brows.

"Hey, peaches, my attention span is short. At least tell me what you're thinking about."

"Well, I'm not sure if I should tell you about Jasper. I think it would be indiscreet."

He leans back, bracing himself by placing his hands on the table behind him. "I don't know him and I doubt that I will ever get to know him. So there is no danger of awkward, unsaid knowledge between the two of us. Furthermore, I don't know anybody who knows him. I don't have or intend to create a Twitter account where I could publish whatever you tell me about him. Let alone that I know anyone who would care. So what harm could it do?" He shrugs.

His logic is simple, yet convincing. I take a breath. "I don't want to tell him that I love him, because I don't wanna stress him out." Will makes no move to say anything, but just looks at me expectantly with his steel blue eyes, so I continue. "Okay, so the situation is this: I think Jasper had some pretty rough times in the past, though the only thing I know for sure is that he lost a very close family member through cancer." I hesitate for a moment, then I add, "And I think Jasper is slightly self harming."

Will furrows his brows. "What do you mean by slightly?"

I lift my hands. "Don't get me wrong, I'm not even sure. But he has a tendency to hurt himself when he's annoyed with himself. One time he broke his cell and then he smashed his fist so hard against the wall that the skin of his knuckles split. All this time I thought that he just had a temper and that these things happened in the heat of the moment. Now I believe that it might be semi-intentional."

He nods and drives his fingers thoughtfully through his bleached blond hair. "I see." Then he asks, "But why do you think that it would stress him out if you said that you love him?"

I sigh and rub my forehead. "The grandpa said he loved him and Jasper wants to believe that that's true… badly. So if I told him about my feelings, I would complicate things for him. I assume that he couldn't help but brood over it. It could even cause a moral dilemma, because depending on how he feels about my revelation he wouldn't know how to treat me after this. Also, if we hypothesize for a moment that his feelings towards me are more than just amicable, my confession could have a severe impact on his relationship to the grandpa. The situation is even more messed up and confusing, because we're still roommates. So avoiding my presence to think about it alone is difficult. And aside from the fact that I _hate_ complicating things…" I fall silent when I realize something. I secretly hope that Will doesn't…

But then realization seems to dawn on him, too, and he lifts an eyebrow. "… you're afraid to open up, because your feelings might not be returned."

God, I feel kind of embarrassed, so I just nod. I half expect Will to smirk and yell "told you so, told you so", therefore I'm a bit surprised when he leans forward, places his hand on my knee and pats it.

"I get it. That isn't cowardice, it's self-protection." His deep voice is soft and sympathetic.

"Now you're contradicting yourself," I mumble.

"Just call me Prince Paradox." He smiles slightly, but then adds in a serious tone, "But don't you think it might be a good step to complicate things? That it might turn out in your favor if you bring him to muse about his relationship with the grandpa? Hell, after what you told me in the bar about the grandpa being married and having kids, I reckon it won't last long anyway. So it'll surely be better for Jasper to start thinking about it."

"Maybe…" I sigh and massage my temple with one hand. "Every possible action on my side seems risky. I wish I could make up my mind."

He gives my knee a firmer pat. "Just do what I've told you." He grins light-heartedly.

I grimace. "You make it sound so simple. But it is everything but!"

"Yeah, yeah…" he stretches and it seems as if his attention has run out now. Accordingly he changes the subject and asks, "Did you lie to Jasper or do you really have to meet up with Mary soon?"

I look at him indignantly and reply, "Of course I didn't lie. I have to be at Mary's in half and hour."

He smiles with a crooked brow and squeezes my thigh slightly. "Just enough time to keep my promise and redeem myself to you."

* * *

"Mary, you're looking so beautiful. The gown is perfect." I examine the platinum-colored wedding dress Mary's wearing while she is turning from one side to the other in front of a high wall mirror. As if the sun knew that Mary would try the wedding gown on, she fought her way through the clouds. My sister's bedroom is lit in bright golden light.

The dress is indeed perfect, consisting of a pearl beaded, strapless silk corsage and a voluminous silk taffeta skirt with lace underneath.

"I'm fat!" She examines herself from the side, her brows knitted in anger.

God, another wedding stereotype that I don't need and an unjustified one for that matter. But I put a good face on things and try to assure her, "No, you're not. You've lost at least 9 pounds and even that was absolutely unnecessary."

She looks at me, still more angry than depressed. "Don't be ridiculous! The dress will only look good if I lose another three."

"If you try to lose more weight before Friday, I'll call mom," I threaten semi-seriously.

She scowls for another moment, then she smiles and laughs quietly. "You wouldn't dare!"

"Yeah, I would!" I grin and stand up from her bed, my glass of Champagne in one hand. Mary insisted that Champagne was part of the ritual of showing your wedding dress to your brother, sister or friends. So despite my hurting head, I agreed to drink a glass with her. Now I can see another hangover coming. I definitely drink too much these days.

I go over to her, holding the Champagne as far away from her gown as possible, when she throws me a warning glance. I look at her in the mirror and feel a wave of sentimentality roll over me. "I will call her. But only to tell her how beautiful you look in your dress."

Mary turns to me, her brown eyes find mine, her tense posture loosens a bit, then she gives me a soft kiss on the cheek, her eyes wet, and whispers, "Thank you. You're a great brother."

I kiss her cheek as well and we stand in silence for a moment, shoulders softly leaning against each other. Then the tautness finds her again, she turns towards the mirror and examines her backside. "And now tell me why you were late again!"

I sip at my Champagne. "I was delayed."

She passes me a strict, almost schoolmarmish look. "By whom?"

"A friend."

"Jasper?"

"No. His name's Will."

She turns around again to face me directly. "Will he accompany you to my wedding?"

I clear my throat. "Yes. Now stop questioning me. The only thing that is missing is a bright light aimed at my face!"

She ignores my demand and sarcasm. "Is he your boyfriend?"

Both my eyebrows slip up. "No!"

Fortunately she doesn't dwell on my very hasty tone. "But you like him?"

I nod.

"Does he know how to mind his manners?"

I roll my eyes and sigh. My voice oozes with irony when I respond, "Oh darn, I don't think so! He habitually dips his head in other people's soup before rubbing himself against their behinds. I thought you were okay with that."

She looks at me angrily, then her face softens. "I'm sorry."

I pat her back gently. "It's okay."

She smiles, then sighs after another look in the mirror, walks over to her bed and sits down onto it very carefully. "I'm happy that you kicked Jasper to the curb after he disregarded you by not showing up. He doesn't deserve you."

I wander over to the bed and sit down next to her, taking a deep breath. "I'm not so sure if I really kicked him completely to the curb. Or maybe I just want him to come get back up by himself and say something like "I love you"." Well, today seems to be "Edward confession day".

"Really, Edward, take my advice and forget him. A man with such ill manners isn't right for you." Her voice sounds firm and certain. She's the second person today who tells me to mark their words. If only the words were the same! But they're not in the least. To be precise, if Will's words are on 90 degrees, Mary's are on 270. To call that confusing and complicated wouldn't do the matter justice. While some part of my mind tries to convince me that "complete disaster" is the suitable expression, Mary takes my hand and adds, "I'll monitor Will very closely at my wedding. And if he can really mind his manners and proves himself to be adequate in every other regard, I'll advise you to take him instead."

Her words make me grin and I squeeze her hand lightly. "Good to know. But I think you shouldn't watch anyone closely except your husband. I really couldn't bear a fight between you two in your first few hours of marriage."

"Me neither," she admits. Then Mary looks at me, fear lurking in the corner of her eyes. "I'm so nervous."

"I've noticed," I smile slightly and squeeze her hand firmer.

"Is Simon the right choice?" Her eyes are big and round.

"Yes, he is. He is kind, good-looking and smart. He can calm you down and make you laugh, when you're upset. And he loves Puccini." My voice sounds sure, because I am.

She throws her arms around me in an impulsive movement and I put my arms around her as well. Another long moment passes, then she whispers, her voice shaky, "I wish Sam was here."

I gulp. "Me too."

* * *

"Okay, mom, see you on Wednesday. Remember to call your daughter and tell her that another weight loss is not an option. Love you. Bye." I grin when I hear my mother chuckle, then I hang up, put the cell back in the pocket of my coat and place the key in the lock of our apartment.

I think everybody knows these moments where you look into a room or about a park or down a street and everything appears to be normal and expected, but there is something odd and unusual, what you don't actually see, but notice unconsciously out of the corner of your eye. I experience one of these moments when I enter the living room. Everything seems to be as usual: Jasper's chocolate brown Budapest shoes are lying untidily under the hall tree, the heater under the window is gurgling quietly, the goldish, greenish Tiffany pendant above the Chesterfield is keeping the muddy darkness, so typical for a New York winter evening, from entering our apartment. The only slightly unusual thing is that the TV is running on mute with nobody on the couch to consume the flood of pictures. However, this is not the thing that irritates me. I still have this strange sensation. Something in the living room is out of place. While I try to figure it out, I take off my coat and hang it up. Then I take a moment and look around more mindfully, still standing at the door.

I blink. There is an open first aid kit lying on the coffee table, its content spread across the wooden surface. Immediately, there is an unpleasant tingle running down my spine. I make a few steps forward and when I have the right angle in proportion to the couch, I discover that it isn't empty, but has an outstretched, seemingly asleep, Jasper in it. The upper part of his body is naked. And since my attention magically directs itself to this region of his body immediately – I'm quite glad that Jasper's asleep so that he can't witness this superficial carnal reaction, it's bad enough that I have to notice it myself – I spot not only the well defined muscles under the skin of his abdomen, but also a huge, purple-colored bruise on his right side, just above his hip bone. The hematoma looks pretty nasty. While my mind reels at where he got the injury from and I'm simultaneously starting to really worry about him, I notice that his right hand seems to be injured, too. It's lying motionlessly on his chest, bandaged up in a rather messy way. I stare at him.

Maybe I breathed in too loud, maybe he wasn't really asleep or maybe (also a likely explanation) the gears in my head creaked while circling around his bad condition and him in general, but whatever the reason, Jasper opens his eyes, looks at me, standing above him at the armrest of the Chesterfield, and croaks, "Edward. Hey."

I flinch and stammer, "Hey." In a desperate attempt to distract myself from the bare skin of Jasper, I turn my eyes to the TV screen, then I ask, "What the hell happened to you?"

"I got into a fight with 50 Cent." He chuckles.

I look back at him, perplexed. "I beg your pardon?"

He sits up a bit by supporting himself with one elbow and reaches out with his left hand for a half empty bottle of Southern Comfort that sits next to the first aid kit. Well, the bottle surely explains the blurry intonation of his voice. God, seems as if always at least one of us is drunk.

"You know," he slurs and then suddenly starts to sing," I take you to the candy shop. I'll let you lick the lollypop." He chuckles again and takes a big gulp out of the bottle.

Thank God that Jasper's occupied with drinking, because I can feel myself blush heavily. "What are you talking about?" I use that harsh tone again that I just don't seem to get under control.

He lowers the bottle and peers up to me. "50 Cent is a rapper," he explains with drunken earnestness. "An' I chose this allegory 'cause the guy that tried to whop me looked and behaved like a wannabe gangster rapper." He grins.

I nod and rub my temple. "I see. But instead you whopped him?"

"Yapp. Got 'im good." Jasper doesn't seem to be proud of that, but just states what happened.

"But apparently he got a big chunk out of you too along the way. Should I fetch some pain killers?"

"Thanks, but not necessary." He waves uncoordinatedly with the bottle.

I pull a face. "To resort to alcohol instead of proper medication is bad enough, but Southern Comfort?"

He takes another gulp and then murmurs, suddenly looking forlorn and serious, "Why? I'm from the south and I need comfort."

I don't know why, maybe it's because of that sentimental, emotionally agitated state I'm currently in, but his words and the expression on his face really strike a chord with me. I gulp and blink, then I kneel down on the parquet in front of the couch and take his bandaged hand into mine. "It's probably good that you didn't choose to become a doctor. You did an awful job with your hand. Mind if I have a look?" Since Jasper doesn't voice an objection, but just stares into space, I begin to remove the bandage.

I furrow my brows, when I've completely unwrapped Jasper's hand and am able to examine it. Aside from the fact that he indeed did a terrible job with the bandage, his hand is a total mess. The knuckles as well as his fingers are swollen and badly bruised and his skin is grazed in varying degrees of depth. I notice that Jasper is now watching me silently with his grass-green eyes, while I carefully scrutinize his hand, but I'm too wrapped up in what I see to react to it in any way. Especially his middle finger is severely battered. As thick as it is, it resembles more a stick than a human finger. Just that I've never seen a purple / dark-blue stick. It must hurt as hell.

I lift my eyes – he looks at me steadfastly – and say, "Of course I'm no expert myself, but I think your middle finger is broken. We should go to the emergency room."

"Yeah," he murmurs, but judging by the moony expression on his face he hasn't really listened to what I've said. There is a moment of silence and at least on my side it is an awkward one, because Jasper just continues to stare at me without saying a word. And when I realize that I'm still holding his hand, it gets even more awkward. But I just can't seem to convince myself to let go, even though I know it would be better. I mean, come on, the whole situation is a recipe for disaster. The way that he's looking at me, the fact that he's drunk as hell, the unfortunate circumstance that I'm undeniably in love with him… And in addition I'm kneeling in front of him, holding his hand like I'm about to propose. God… I know I'll do something very stupid and rash in the next second, I can feel it building up in me. But suddenly, before I can do anything, he reaches out with his left hand. All of his fingers are closed around the bottleneck, except for his index finger, which he extends to touch my cheek bone with its tip. Another tingle runs down my spine, but this time it's not unpleasant, just very, very confusing. Our eyes meet, he looks at me with a strange, almost fervid intensity, which I can't really attribute. I stare back at him, totally addled. What the hell does this mean? What? WHAT? His finger traces down my cheek, a little bit uncoordinated, while I'm rooted to the spot. I take a nervous breath.

And then Jasper blinks, furrows his brows, obviously in pain, groans and sits up hastily, spilling half of the bottle of Southern Comfort over me and the coffee table. I let go of his hand – finally –, he lets go of the bottle and then he rushes past me, tottering like a sailor during a storm, gagging heavily, toward the bathroom.

Later on, when we're leaving the emergency room of the Roosevelt Hospital, I have a lot more information: a) Jasper has a concussion. b) Jasper has a broken middle finger. c) Jasper has a partially fractured rip. d) Jasper has mild alcohol poisoning. e) Jasper has no idea about what he did on the Chesterfield.

"I really spilled Southern Comfort on you? Am sorry. Know ya hate this stuff." His voice is weak and shaky, he's pale as a ghost, but he still tries to smile.

I aid him down the stairs that lead to the main entrance of the hospital by holding on to his elbow lightly. As soon as he has covered this obstacle, I release his elbow immediately.

While he stops, rummaging around in the pockets of his coat for his cigarettes, I look up in the night sky. "It's okay."

He lights a cigarette with trembling fingers. "I'll make it up to ya," he drawls.

I nod.

f) I have no idea how my life got so confusing.


End file.
